Sometimes you feel out of place, but being in the middle is not a loss. It’s the point from where you can see two worlds, while others see only one. I feel I’m a crescent that doesn’t need to become sun to shine. 

These were the words of Tamara Al Zool, the 23 years old who goes by her art name TÄRA. She has reached millions of Italians through the mainstream TV-program Le Iene in May with a monologue on identity that soon became viral on social media. 

A week later, her debut EP “Zefiro” went out on a date that could not be more important for her: May 15, the day of the Nakba, a day and a history she has always known from her parents and grandparents who lived it. Today, touring Italy and Europe with concerts and events, she is taking on the Italian music scene with a style that, according to Rolling Stone MENA, “Italy has no category for”. 

To learn more about her artistic journey, UntoldMag sat with TÄRA for an exclusive interview. 

 

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Born in Italy to Palestinian parents, TÄRA is making waves with her own genre. She calls it Arab&B, a new type of R&B where she mixes Arabic, English, Italian (and at times also French) in such a natural way that one would not imagine that at one point in her life, she had challenges in feeling her identity.  It would not seem so either when, two years ago, at her very first appearance on TV for the music program X Factor Italia, she made it very clear why she was there: “I came to X-factor to represent, to be a voice”, she said, wearing a keffiyeh as she performed Ariana Grande’s song 7 Rings with some parts reinterpreted in Arabic. 

Palestine – and all that comes with it, from the ongoing genocide to resistance and memory –, the Arabic speaking world, and the Mediterranean as a whole are constant themes in her songs, through which the listener can soon appreciate that TÄRA makes music with universal messages. Like in “Diaspora”, which draws a line between the Palestinians expelled from their land and the Southern Italians who leave their homes behind out of necessity. 

In the “Petra” music video, shot in Tunis, within 3 minutes the music takes the listener through a romantic journey from Maghreb to Mashreq. Not to mention her rendition of Ya Helwa Ciao, her Arabic rendition of Bella Ciao, the song adopted by the Italian Resistance calling for freedom and an end to fascism, so popular among Palestinians (and generally among minorities fighting for their rights). 

Stefano Nanni: Identity is a recurrent topic in your songs. But who is TÄRA before and after becoming the artist, and has that helped in affirming your own identity?

TÄRA: The beauty of all that I’m living is that before, during and after, it’s always me. I can definitely say that my public persona is not a ‘character’ but genuinely who I am, expressing my values without fear. 

It has not always been easy to belong to different worlds at the same time, but I learned with time that being in the middle is an additional perspective rather than a deficiency. And I think I grew in awareness and courage to translate my innate self into art. Being able to represent all these middle lands is certainly not an easy task, but it’s like my whole world is made of many different points of view. 

For example, in the song “Petra” we chose Tunisia as a destination because it perfectly encompasses my multifaceted world, highlighting the beautiful similarities among seemingly different cultures and transcending societal divisions.

SN: Still on identity, in the very powerful music video “Beauty standards”, you seem to affirm something also about the type of aesthetic you want to embrace. 

T: With this EP I am going through a whole journey, including certain beauty standards because it is a theme that I have personally experienced, having felt ‘not beautiful enough’ according to certain norms imposed by society. 

I am sure many other girls have experienced and continue to experience this type of ‘discomfort’ – that’s what I call it. With that video I wanted to represent, through a short monologue, how the beauty you have today, even if it may not conform to mainstream models represented by the media, actually carries history and tradition. 

It is important to acknowledge and remember that the people before you have fought to make you be here, so you have to bring these unique features, with pride, not shame.

SN: Do you feel somehow that your music is able to represent people who often had no one to identify with? And can it contribute to more unity?

T: Let’s say that my goal is precisely to represent those often unrepresented: The too many Italians with foreign roots caught in the middle like me. If in my own small way, my music succeeded in attracting even two or three persons who feel I am doing something positive for them, then I am very happy and I hope it will go even better. 

I don’t want to sound too utopian, but it would be nice to get to a point where we don’t even have to make all these divisions among all of us anymore, and then be able to live in unity simply as human beings. I have a strong desire for my music to foster unity among all people, dreaming a world without such divisions, where cultural beauty is celebrated by all humans. I hope that my art will play a role in all this.

SN: How are you handling success? Did your direct relations with fans change by becoming so popular? 

T: When it comes to my relationship with fans I think it is even improving, as I continue to live the direct connection with them through social media, receiving immense support and love. I think it is a very beautiful way of living this experience. 

At the same time, it is obvious that social media can be a double-edged sword, as the toxicity of certain users brings also a lot of negativity. Sometimes it’s hard to confront that, especially hate speech and comments about Palestine, but I am learning to use indifference as a more effective strategy, because in the end, those who want to hate stick to anything in front of them.

Generally, about success, I think I’m living a fairly quiet relationship with it, actually. I see it as a means, I have the privilege to access a wide audience, to share the messages I want to transmit, especially about Palestine and the genocide we’re still suffering. So why not do it? Indeed, in certain places like on mainstream TV there seem to be certain rules about not talking about certain topics, but I am approaching them, as much as possible, with my naturalness and my identity, without hiding anything. 

SN: On the power to use popularity to take a stance, recently in Italy there were some controversies about the words of Francesco De Gregori, a very popular singer, who said that he “feels embarrassed when an artist takes a political position”. What do you think of that?

T: I have honestly not read what he said, and I don’t want to decontextualize his words, but my opinion is a totally different one: I want my art to give a voice to the voiceless and to minorities. 

As an artist, I believe I have the power and responsibility to educate younger generations and empower those who might otherwise feel silenced. I don’t want to live in a world where somebody grows up fearing that exposing themself is something that leads them to something negative. I don’t want that, I want something different.

The post Giving Italy a Sound It Has No Category For: An Interview with Palestinian-Italian Singer TÄRA appeared first on Untold.

جنة جنة جنة يا وطنا [Paradise, Paradise, Our Country is Paradise] 

Words and the relentless music penetrate my body, inebriated and exhausted as it rests on a sofa of a semi-stranger, with the only bond we share being Syria. Night eventually descends in summery Berlin, while I am listening countless times to the song Janna Janna remixed by the Syrian-German band Shkoon.

Its beginning and end dissolve into a flow of sounds, words and beats. Darkness reaches the palm frond framing the window, its slow motion devouring every single object of that unfamiliar living room. The night is untamed, almost ruthless, in its carnivorous mission, ingesting my own body and mind, too, until now occupied by the crescendo of the synths and the pounding of the beat. The entire space and myself, the past and the present, dissipate profanely and profoundly.  

***

May 2021, Berlin, a desk

It was not the first time I listened to this song, even to this specific remixed version. As happened to a lot of the traditional musical repertoire, the piece was reinvented with new meanings in March 2011 and became the soundtrack of this historical period, the revolution, after protests sparked in Syria. The song, also, became tied to one of its uncontested icons, Abdul Baset al-Sarout, a young prominent football goalkeeper who had embraced the revolution and led the protests in Homs with his words and presence. He later turned into a Free Syrian Army fighter in the wake of the brutal repression and siege laid down by the al-Assad regime in his hometown, a transformation captured by the documentary Return to Homs by filmmaker Talal Derki. The song and its infinite re-interpretations also became the sonic landmark of my nightlife in the German capital, since my arrival in May 2018. I witnessed its innumerable metamorphosis–that did not scratch its sacred power–in the many Arab parties populating pre-pandemic Berlin. 

***

February 2019, Berlin, a nightclub

An unremarkable winter night. An electro dabke version of the song instigates a powerful energy reverberating on the dancefloor. Squeezed next to each other, partygoers are greeting each other, some others dancing and drinking, others simply chatting. The moment this song starts, this heterogeneous group becomes a single entity. My friend Azad, standing next to me, is also infected by the song and the atmosphere. He starts to shout, singing along. Holding my hand, he initiates a spontaneous dabke line where I follow his voice and body. We ignore the heat, the lack of space and oxygen; we dance, sneaking around single dancers, trying to find an empty spot for our next steps amongst the other chains of people whose hands clasp together. The song is replayed immediately, the energy still inhabiting the room with force as sweating bodies and loud voices continue to move and sing in unison. 

I did not reflect much in that moment about what was happening –as similar to other such moments punctuating my nocturnal life. I just danced, I let myself be carried away by the sound and the vibe. There was no time, space and, even, willingness to dissect the power of the song as it was all about living in the moment, savouring its addictive and hedonistic flavour like an animal starving in the middle of a dying forest. Maybe those moments on the dancefloor were just so cathartic because they were about holding onto something beautiful that was about to end or it had already ended but we were not ready to let go. 

Revolutions never last for an eternity, nor should they. Yet, those moments of pure magic can survive, or we want (we need) them to survive, not to fall down, collapse forever–and us–with them. They always remind me of Eugenio Montale’s poem, I Limoni [The Lemon Trees], his wandering in a noisy city made of cement punctuated by a moment of pure beauty as he suddenly glimpses a lemon tree hidden in the courtyard of a building. Maybe the revolution had the smell of the lemons Montale was desperately seeking, that ultimate treasure that life, the world, and nature can offer to ordinary people. Maybe the paradise–Janna Janna–was Montale’s lemon trees. 

***

October 2022, Berlin, an old kneipe

For Azad, –the friend who held my hand in captivity dancing dabke that night– the song is an allegory of his revolutionary past. Three years after that night; a lifetime after the revolution, we talk about my ideas behind this text. He smiles at me and his partner, with a hint of bitterness, saying that he forgot about that night, but he remembers the song as part of his young self reaching the square to protest, dance, listen to Janna Janna and to fulfill the promise of a different future for Syria. His enduring attempts always failed as the regime’s snipers and their bullets were always faster in dropping the curtains at these rebellious gatherings and claiming some people’s lives in the process. 

***

August 2015, Lebanon, a school courtyard

For me, that dabke reminds me of those evenings spent in the courtyard of the school in the midst of agricultural fields. Created by the Syrian community displaced from rural Homs, the school and its courtyard–situated not far from its informal settlement – became the stage for any sort of event that required a sahra [party]: celebration of an engagement, a wedding or just ordinary life. The singer with his voice and the musician with his electric piano animate those dark nights and their summer breeze amusing the usual crowd while guests arrive from far and not so far away. 

Sometimes, we just listen to his singing, making up impromptu celebratory or ironic lyrics about one of us. Other times, the electro dabke pushes us in the middle of the courtyard/dancefloor as circles of men and women, sometimes mixed, dance not far from children playing around. The atmosphere is not always joyful, nostalgia and melancholia arise amongst a tensed silent audience as his voice recalls the past and what has been lost. 

There was no revolutionary fervor in those summer evenings. Janna Janna and all the other revolutionary songs never made it to the courtyard –to be honest, the revolution seemed to have become a chimera by the time of my arrival in August 2014. Sarout was never mentioned there either. Yet, those moments also were revolutionary in their own essence: they were celebrating the ‘minor struggles’ to be alive and continue to live despite displacement and the devastation of the war. 

***

Berlin, October 2024, a bed

The dancefloor was neither the street nor the courtyard. Yet, Berlin 2019 managed to bring Syria 2011 and Lebanon 2015 back as if we were inside a half-broken TV from the nineties, in which, from time to time, one channel blended with another one –as if time and space collapse making it impossible to distinguish what we were doing, with whom, where and when. The dancefloor, after all, was just a vacuum that helped everyone postpone a sense of an ending and a future repeating an eternal past. After all, this was Berlin, it was not Sarout singing, it was only a remix. Like my friend, I also danced the night away. But that waning dusk on the sofa was different. It was not a time of reckoning the end, but a time of remembering its beginning.  

***

August 2012, London, a crowd, the Syrian embassy

Another Saturday afternoon in front of the Syrian embassy in the most imperial looking parts of Central London. ‘Janna Janna’ is filling the air of those revolutionary protests: we are not Syria, but Syria and the revolution are here. For the young and older generations of Syrians protesting from a distance, this is a moment of hope, euphoria, togetherness until then unimaginable, as fear and silence brought from Syria were carefully cultivated and generationally transmitted even in the diaspora.

I was happy to touch again those moments that were, so far, buried by the passing of time. Yet, they felt more distant than ever, belonging to a parallel universe that crashed in front of the violent reality. 

***

June 2019, Berlin, a computer screen

A week after me lying on that sofa,Sarout died after being wounded in battle between Hama and Idlib. My Facebook newsfeed becomes a reel of mourning for this man and his legacy: the video of him singing during the protests, his interviews and pictures of the funeral attended by thousands of people in Idlib. In Lebanon, members of the Syrian community I lived with commemorated his death, abandoning their usual carefulness in posting anything political and revolutionary at their own very real risk. In Berlin too, the news feels devastating––he was a symbol of the revolution, but almost an embodiment of the Syrian predicament and its contradictions. His death feels like a kitchen knife cutting deeply through the skin and flesh of a finger.

***

November 2024, Berlin

We are no longer on a dancefloor, its darkness and the darkness of the night did not protect us from the reckoning of this bitter end; there weren’t any lemon trees to uncover in any hidden corner. Like the TV of my childhood where white, black and grey lines dominated the screen, eating up one channel and the intrusive other, the feelings, people, years and places belonging to the revolution became mixed up with neither beginning nor end. A dream I did not live but watched in front of a broken TV showcasing fragments of my diaries, fieldnotes and memories. Maybe I can only archive these fragments, making some order and clarity in between these monochromatic lines as a final act of mourning, or as a way to deal with the lingering melancholia. I put a date, a place, I unpack and deconstruct the secret beauty of a lemon tree, the captivating lyrics of Janna Janna, reminding myself that even revolutionary icons like Sarout are human.

***

 7th December 2024, Berlin, Sonneallee/Arab Street,

I am walking towards Sonneallee to catch the bus to go home and watch the speech of Bashar al-Assad that never happened. My friend Nawal and I are stopped by a young boy standing in front of one of the many Syrian patisseries that found their homes in this long avenue. Wearing the Syrian revolutionary flag like the mantle of a superhero, he stands next to an old stereo singing Janna Janna, offering sweets to people passing by to celebrate the imminent fall of Bashar al-Assad. The revolutionary flag reappears in a blink of an eye, worn like an accessory by men walking in the street or attached to the Keffiyeh and the Palestinian flag at the entrance of many shops. 

The day after, even Sarout reappears in flags and posters brought by the jubilant crowd celebrating the collapse of the regime and its eternal aura. I smell again the lemon tree as Janna Janna is blasted in the middle of Kreuzberg, almost symbolizing this surreal moment of touching paradise with the point of that finger, effortlessly, at least for the here and now.

I do not know what to do with this text now that it tells a different ending written only in November from the one we witnessed more recently. I want to delete that part, but I can’t. I am tempted to rewind the tape, letting the interferences in the screen just be what they have been, without any order or logic, to preserve that revolutionary momentum as it was, as it is now, and with it, those who are not here with us, celebrating the many ways in which they also contributed to make the unimaginable and unforeseeable become history. 

This text was written prior to February 2025 and is part of the dossier “Eternity Unwoven,” curated by Veronica Ferreri and Inana Othman.

The dossier is a collaboration of Archivwar with Untoldmag and Arabpop. Its Italian version is available in Arabpop Vol. 8 “Cose” (Arabpop logo)

Graphic project: Greg Olla

The publisher remains available to rights holders regarding any images for which it was not possible to identify or contact the owners.

This project has received funding from the European Union’s Horizon Europe Resarch and Innovation Programme under the Marie Sklodowska-Curie grant agreement No. 101064513 “ARCHIVWAR – Archives in Times of War: Scattered Families and Vanishing Past in Contemporary Syria.” 

Funded by the European Union. Views and options expressed are however those of the author(s) only and do not necessarily reflect those of the European Union or the European Execute Agency. Neither the European Union nor the granting authority can be held responsible for them.

The post Paradise, interrupted. The archive may not end appeared first on Untold.

And what sounds can an international solidarity front produce? How can one exploit reverberation, exercise echo? How can all frequencies be occupied to finally make the inaudible present?

Militant, communal, and self-organised radios have always fought silencing, historically becoming platforms for advocacy and resistance, and for the dissemination of culture, music and the sound identity of peoples. Even today, through the network, some radio projects continue to narrate and denounce colonial violence in Palestine.

Radio Alhara

In June 2020, at the height of the Covid-19 pandemic, Radio Alhara was born between Bethlehem and Ramallah. The founders, Elias and Yousef Anastas, Saeed Abu Jaber, Mothanna Hussein, and Yazan Khalili are musicians and creatives. They think of the radio as a cultural centre, a way to produce and share their music from a distance. 

Radio Alhara is a self-managed community radio, able to be sustained thanks to a network of collaborations all over the world. The community  is made up of ‘residents’, artists who have a dedicated monthly space that they curate by projecting sounds and voices that are often muted, contributing to the streamed programme by uploading some of their mixes to the soundcloud channel.

The more political programmes began in conjunction with the Black Lives Matter movement and following the explosion in the port of Beirut in 2020. 

The first, more structured one is Fil Mishmish, which could be translated as ‘in apricot time’,  a sweet, all too brief time. This sound protest was an international collection of voices against Israel’s desire to annex more West Bank territories. Initially conceived as a continuous 24-hour broadcast, an invitation was launched on the web for participants to send in their own form of sound reaction and solidarity. In the end, the materials received filled three days of lineup, and were broadcasted on the 8th, 9th and 10th of July 2020, garnering some 17,000 listeners. 

Among the many contributions that enlivened those hours was that of Leila Moon, an Algerian DJ, musician, and resident artist at the radio station. She contributed an embroidery of sounds from the Maghreb, including raï, Arab pop, combined with electronic passages and grafted popular songs from the Palestinian liberation movement, including the closing words to the voice of Miriam Makeba who sang one of the most popular anti-war songs: ‘It’s better to stop. Hey, what’s that sound? Everybody look what’s going on…’

The experiment that was Fil Mishmish  inspired many more sound actions. In 2021, Sonic Liberation Front was created as a reaction to the escalation of violence by the Israeli occupation forces  storming Al-Aqsa Mosque during Ramadan, forcibly evicting Palestinian residents in the Sheikh Jarrah neighbourhood of East Jerusalem, and the bombing of Gaza for 11 days. 

‘Todas las manos, todas las voces…’ (All hands, all voices), sings Mercedes Sosa, opening and closing Nicola Jaar’s contribution for Sonic Liberation Front on 22 May 2021. The programme is  a chorus from Latin America, moving between Jaar’s songs inspired by the revolutionary protests in Chile in 2019-2020 and the uprisings in Colombia in 2021, together with popular songs of similar struggles, a gesture of solidarity and evidence of an indissoluble link between the liberation struggles of indigenous peoples. 

‘Toda la sangre puede ser canción en el viento. Canta conmigo, canta, hermano americano. Libera tu esperanza con un grito en la voz’. (All blood can become a song in the wind. Sing with me, sing, my American brother. Free your hope, with a cry, with your voice).

After 7 October 2023, Radio Alhara never stopped paying attention to the voices of the Palestinian people. In the meeting ‘Sounds and Ignitions from Palestine to the World’, in Milan, I found myself together with artists and researchers linked to Palestine by identity or by choice, discovering how much, despite the tragedy, Radio Alhara is continuing its creation and cultural production. 

Toni Cutrone, musician and author of the Mai Mai project, shared his recent experience in Palestine. The artist had been invited by Radio Alhara to the Wonder Cabinet space for the ‘Sound of Places’ residency project, held between May and June 2024. 

Together with a dozen or so artists, sound craftspeople, and researchers, he went to the Cremisan Valley, a rare natural space around Bethlehem that is constantly under threat. He listened to a range of soundscapes, from the procession to the Church of the Nativity to checkpoints and olive groves. He collaborated with musicians such as Abul3ees, a Palestinian rapper from Jerusalem, using traditional instruments such as the buzuq (Karam Fares), riq and bandir (Jihad Shouibi), and recorded funeral mournings with Maya Al Khaldi. 

Along with all this material, he mixed excerpts from the sound archive of the Popular Art Center in Ramallah, which collects recordings from the 1990s to the present.In addition to being broadcast on Radio Alhara, his creation is also filmed in Italy. 

During the same event, Noura Tafeche and Condoii presented their research work and radio creation for Radio Alhara ‘Identity and Indigenous Perspectives’. Indigenous identity is a condition and terrain of an alliance, one that reveals the traces of a colonial past common to the two artists, albeit from different contexts. The story of centuries of resistance of the peoples of Abya Yala and Falastin is told in the work starting with some musical instruments that the artists  play synchronously. Without romance or folklore, the result is out-of-tune notes, dissonances rather than harmonies, representative of exile and contemporary diasporas. 

 Learning Palestine 

This performance by Noura Tafeche recites little-known verses by Mahmoud Darwish, in which the Palestinian poet speaks from the point of view of an indigenous person from the Americas, focusing on the connection with the land, in its natural elements. One can hear the poet’s voice reading the same verses in Arabic in the Until Liberation I radio broadcast offered by Learning Palestine, a group of artists, activists, and researchers who regularly collaborate with Radio Alhara. 

The collective has created a web platform to share and disseminate knowledge about the Palestinian liberation struggle, experimenting with new ways of circulating knowledge outside of social media and their policies of censorship and control. At the same time, the site features pamphlets already paginated to be printed and distributed as fanzines. 

Learning Palestine also features two radio broadcasts, Until the Liberation I and II, each lasting twelve hours.

The first episode is a mosaic of speeches, poems, songs and sounds that reconstruct the Palestinian struggle inside and outside the land of Palestine.  

We can hear John Berger reading Letter from Gaza by Ghassan Kanafani, Edward Said in a long interview from 1986, a lunge on the history of Black solidarity, Angela Davis’ disruptive speech at Oranienplatz in Berlin in 2022, Judith Butler talking about BDS and anti-Semitism, or a reconstruction by Ilan Pappe from 1948, and more recent appeals such as Fred Moten’s. 

Songs of marriage, birth and death, which is inserted among the many languages in which Palestine has been and continues to be spoken. A song in Swedish closes the release: Leve Leve Palestina (Long Live Palestine).

Until Liberation II, on the other hand, is designed to go back to the roots of the struggles, understand their history and inform the present. 

The introduction reads: ‘despite the differences in our struggles, Palestine remains an embodiment and extension of these and other struggles for life and liberation, against racism, colonialism, imperialism and rising fascism’.

Again, it represents a polyphony of struggles between South Africa, Abya Yala and Asia that have always spoken to each other. Of particular relevance is the relationship between Algeria and Palestine in the intertwining of decolonial movements. Malika Rahal, an Algerian historian, traces the assonances between the two events: Fanon’s thought is taken up by Said’s words, a lecture retraces the stages of the Algerian war of independence. The French-Algerian-Palestinian filmmaker Lina Soualem closes with a personal story and the complex relationship between a skin syndrome she suffers from, the history of her body, and her family’s migrations. 

24h Palestine

Another international solidarity action chooses the 24h format; 24h Palestine is a global radio event of anti-colonial alliances. These are independent, militant, artistic radio stations around the world broadcasting the same sounds at the same time to prove the common commitment to the Palestinian liberation cause. Since 7 October there have been three editions, each time with different content and a widening network. 

Streaming starts from Radio Alhara in Bethlehem and expands to Radio Flouka (Paris/Mena Region); Radio Blackout and Radio Onda Rossa (Italy); The Mosaic Rooms (UK); Libreria Proyeccion (Chile); La Parole Errante and Radio Galère (France); Station of Commons/Lumbung Radio (Transnational); Pan African Space Station (South Africa); Radio Tropiezo and Radio Nopal (Mexico); Radio Oroko (Ghana); Dublin Digital Radio; Ja Ja Nee Nee Radio (Netherlands); Stegi Radio (Greece); Radio Liberté (Burkina Faso); Radio Djiido (Kanaky). These were joined by broadcasting stations set up for the occasion in Beirut, Maiotta, Reunion Island and Cairo.

The third and most recent edition was broadcast on 28 and 29 September 2024, assembling sound fragments from the university occupations, from the oppositions of the autonomous dockworkers’ collective in Genoa to the departure of the ships carrying arms, the voices of Palestinian refugees in the camps in Lebanon with those of solidarity from Bangladesh, the Pacific, Finland, boycott actions and pieces of revolutionary music.

The palimpsest was dedicated to the time of struggles, to the transition from emergency to long-term, starting with the question: ‘How can we go beyond the declarative aspect of our solidarity to break the deadly imperialist and capitalist alliances? The long times of struggles deploy strategies, reconfiguring space through their resonances’. 

All these radio practices remind us of the hard-to-reach sound dimension of war. Sound can be an instrument of torture, of terror, or a form of ‘occupation of the senses’, i.e. one of the ways in which colonialism performs its domination, controlling sensory access to the world of the colonised. 

Taking back the spaces of the sensible becomes an act of everyday resistance, generating other ‘signals’ that reformulate space and time, where transmission transcends territorial boundaries and rematerialises in physical spaces and moments of aggregation, where voices reach bodies and make listening an act of witnessing. 

*This article was produced in collaboration with Orient XXI, where it was first published in Italian. 

The post Sonic Liberation Front: Radio between art and militancy in Palestine appeared first on Untold.

As preparations unfolded according to plan, a trace of (perhaps healthy!) concern appeared on the face of Elaf Badr al-Din, assistant professor of Arabic studies at Davidson University and a Syrian researcher. He had embarked years ago on a journey to unearth a supposed prison song in Syria and wrote a related study that is expected to come to light soon.

Around the hall, makeshift musical instruments lay scattered, faithfully reconstructed in the style of Sednaya Prison: here, the bowl oud; there, the dried bread oud.

“Resistance with Soft Power”

“Recovering the music you played in prison is beautiful, but doesn’t your preoccupation with it somehow bring you back to prison?”

My question momentarily pulled teacher Asaad away from crafting the flute. “I studied at the Institute of Music before my arrest, and I was detained just a month after graduating,” he explained. “The abundant time in prison became an opportunity to strengthen my abilities, though there were no references. I believe that music, in general, and singing, help maintain balance. After my release, my relationship with music remained strong, as a member of my family.”

He paused before adding, “But it does, of course, evoke memories—memories filled with pain but also with beauty… even pleasure. It reminds you that the pain didn’t destroy you; instead, you were able to transform it into something beautiful. I’ve always called it resistance with soft power.”

Kasra, who spent eight years in prison and learned to play with Asaad’s guidance, reflects on how detention reshaped his relationship with music. He describes the stages a prisoner undergoes in the search for balance—finding ways to fill the void of free time imposed by detention. Each prisoner explores different fields of art, knowledge, formation, languages, and music. Dozens began learning music, but only six continued.

“You find your balance and create your own world in prison, through which you discover yourself,” Kasra reflects, referencing the term “detention” coined by writer Yassin al-Haj Saleh, which emphasizes adapting to and relying on the prison environment. Despite the many opportunities for other pursuits after his release, Kasra remained deeply connected to music. Whenever he played, he would recall the prison—where and how he learned music.

Haitham Al-Qatrib, a singing teacher from Salamiyah, who was detained in 1982 for ten years, offers a contrasting perspective. He says he never remembers the prison after his release, nor does he dream about it, describing it as “the place I despised the most (…). There is something burned inside us there that cannot be replaced.”

He recounts learning music before his arrest but forgetting everything during his imprisonment, as he was placed in a different wing from the musicians. Yet, he rediscovered music using a radio he had, through which he followed music programs and relearned the basics of solfège. “After seven months, I organized a party for them, performing songs I had composed,” he recalls. “After my release, I stayed away from music for a year, but then I returned to teaching.I became the first professor in Salamiyah to help students gain acceptance into the Higher Institute of Music.”

“Elaf narrates in his research how Badr Zakaria would transform critical situations into humorous ones, such as laughing out loud when a torturer banged his head and the heads of other detainees against the wall in the interrogation room. Different groans emanated from them, and he imagined someone playing the piano with their heads, which led to him being beaten again.”

“Elaf narrates in his research how Badr Zakaria would transform critical situations into humorous ones, such as laughing out loud when a torturer banged his head and the heads of other detainees against the wall in the interrogation room. Different groans emanated from them, and he imagined someone playing the piano with their heads, which led to him being beaten again.”

As we continue our conversation, Asaad Shalash steps into the next room. From there, we can hear him testing the flute (Ney), ensuring its sound is just right.

The challenge of squeezing memory and recalling the musical aspects of their prison lives becomes apparent when we ask about their experience during a pivotal moment: the death of the dictator’s son, Basil al-Assad, in a car accident in 1994. Did they stop playing music during those days when the regime imposed national mourning on the population? Kasra recalls how terror permeated the prison at the time, leaving no space for music. They feared potential retaliatory measures from the prison administration for reasons that often defied logic. Ibrahim Bayrakdar recalls the punishment inflicted on Adnan Qassar, a horseman and fellow prisoner, although he was detained like them and certainly did not cause Basil’s death, nor had he ever committed a fault by surpassing him in horsemanship, he ended up spending 21 years behind bars.

“Symphony of Howling”

When asked about the Symphony of Howling mentioned in Elaf’s research, their memories seemed insufficient to fully reconstruct the details of what their theater friend, Badr Zakaria, once did. It is said that he vented his anguish by howling under the prison door, and gradually, others joined in. The collective howling reportedly frightened the jailers.

Discussing music as a form of soul practice and resistance, Elaf narrates in his research how Badr Zakaria would transform critical situations into humorous ones, such as laughing out loud when a torturer banged his head and the heads of other detainees against the wall in the interrogation room. Different groans emanated from them, and he imagined someone playing the piano with their heads, which led to him being beaten again.

Regarding their most cherished musical memories in prison, Kasra recalls how irritating his music training was for the other detainees, prompting him to practice at the end of the wing to avoid disturbing them. One day, however, remains etched in his memory—when their friend Badr Zakaria expressed admiration for his playing, a moment that has stayed with him to this day. Ibrahim also remembers how annoying his training sessions were to the others and how, after a year of practice, he was selected among the beginners to perform in a concert. He says, “We sang songs like Laylat Yabareh and Sho Qoulak. That was the first time I felt a true sense of my own presence.”

Ibrahim also recalls a group memorial concert in which he, Asaad, and others participated on the day the “Prince of the Bouzouki,” Mohammed Abdel Karim, passed away. During this tribute, they sang Raqqat Hasanak Wa Samarak (The Softness of your Beauty and Brown Skin).

Elaf categorizes this event under the heading “eulogies” in his research, a copy of which I had the opportunity to review. This research began with a grant from the Ettijahat Foundation and continued at the University of Marburg in Germany, later receiving support from other institutions, such as the Umam Foundation.

Melodies Drenched in Fear

But not all memories tied to music were rosy; they were melodies drenched in fear, deeply intertwined with deprivation and punishment. Ibrahim Bayrakdar, from Homs, who spent nearly nine years in detention, recalls a celebration they held for a friend’s daughter’s birthday. Their friend Al-Raqawi, whose voice was beautifully resonant, was singing to the tune of his oud when “the most despicable disciplinary assistant suddenly burst into the room. We fell silent, and he spotted the oud in my lap. He asked, ‘Are you the one singing?’ I said yes—I thought it was better for only one of us to be punished rather than both.

He took me down to the cell, located four floors below ground. I stayed there for a month and five days. My smell became unbearable, indescribable. The fur I was wearing had completely disintegrated from the high humidity—it was as if a hyena had devoured it. No matter how much you knocked on the door, they wouldn’t answer. Hassan Azzou, one of our friends, kept knocking repeatedly, but no one came. He died in that cell.” Ibrahim adds, “The jailers were infuriated whenever they heard us play music. They would think, ‘These are prisoners, and they’re happy? How? They don’t want us to be normal human beings.’”

The jailers were infuriated whenever they heard us play music. They would think, ‘These are prisoners, and they’re happy? How? They don’t want us to be normal human beings.’

However, family visits and the rampant corruption inside and outside the prison played a role in improving their musical conditions, as Ibrahim points out that corruption allowed for the smuggling of many “contrabands”, including real oud strings that they bought from the prison guards, while the families brought some strings with them during visits.

The development of the musical instrument craftsmanship… and a “historic ceremony”

Ibrahim recalls how the musical instrument industry developed in prison, “The first to make instruments was Asaad, he made Oud al-Qas’a (The Bowl Oud) in the Palestine Branch (…) When we moved to Sednaya, we used to take advantage of the eggplant and tomato boxes, and use glass to cut them, and we suffered a lot in that, and we used sock threads to make strings, until real strings arrived through visits and were purchased from the censors. There were experiments in other wings, ouds made from cardboard, then techniques developed, and elaborate ouds were made, they cut the wood and soak it in water and curved it, there were engineers who were experts in manufacturing.” He remembers that when he came out of the underground cell and returned to the wing, with a broken oud and soul, one of them promised them, “Don’t worry about Barhoum, today there will be an oud ready for you,” Ibrahim says with a smile.

At the highly anticipated detainees’ concert, we heard them perform nine prison songs, one of which they had composed themselves. The lyrics to some of these songs were written in prison by the poet Faraj Bayrakdar.

The event was part of a program titled “Towards a Deeper Understanding of Prisons” organized by HAU Theater in collaboration with several human rights organizations. It also included a dialogue session moderated by Bente Schiller from the German Heinrich Böll Foundation, featuring writer Yassin al-Haj Saleh, Lynn Maalouf from the Office of the UN Envoy to Syria, and human rights activist Jumana Seif.

The audience at the concert felt a remarkable harmony in the band members’ playing and singing, despite their decades-long separation after their release and having only spent a few days rehearsing together before the event. A representative of the German Theater described the concert as historic—not only because it marked the first-ever performance by these musicians post-release, but also because it was their debut in Berlin.

Hassan Abdul Rahman, a musician from Damascus now residing in France, who had begun learning music before his arrest and continued his studies while detained, held up a musical instrument during the performance to introduce the audience to a unique oud design. It mimicked the ones they used to craft in prison using cardboard and fruit boxes, reinforced with a mixture of soaked bread, sugar, and jam.

Later, during a seminar organized by the Tafakur Forum for Dialogue and Culture, Hassan recalled how someone from the audience at one of his concerts told him, after many years, that they had “eaten” his oud in Sednaya prison after Hassan and his companions were released. He explained that when a standoff occurred in the prison after several years, at the beginning of the third millennium, food supplies were cut off, and they were forced to break the stale bread into pieces, soak it in water, and eat it.

When a standoff occurred in the prison after several years, at the beginning of the third millennium, food supplies were cut off, and they were forced to break the stale bread into pieces, soak it in water, and eat it.

The musicians were joined on stage by Adnan Hassan, a doctor with a degree in English literature now living in France. Adnan, who spent 12 years and 16 days in the regime’s detention centers, had further developed his oud-playing skills during his imprisonment.

Asaad Shalash also introduced the audience to primitive instruments he made, the ney he made during his conversation with us, the bowl oud, to which he attached strings made from threads taken from socks, and a rectangular oud that imitated one they made in Sednaya from fruit boxes, which he played and sang with his companions the traditional song “Ammi Ya Baya’ al-Ward” (My Uncle, the Rose Seller).

He also introduced the audience to the so-called “morning” ritual, which are songs, most of which are from “Fayrouz classics”, that he played for the detainees, so that they could start their day in the nicest way possible, and to the ritual of “eulogies”, talking about a song they sang in detention about a detained officer who was released by the regime so that he could die outside of it.

Meanwhile, Kasra Kurdi sang with Hassan and the band’s guest, the former detainee, artist Khuder Abdul Karim, the traditional Kurdish song “Yek Momek” which was also sung in the prison. The detainees also sang the song “Atab” which they composed collectively and whose lyrics were written by the poet Faraj Bayrakdar, who the research indicates participated in writing “Eight Prisoners”. Researcher Elaf explains that this song is the only one of those restored that has been documented and reproduced.

During the concert, Asaad Shalash announced the formation of a group they called “Strings Behind Bars” to be a destination for everyone who resisted the harshness of detention through art and music, and to try to revive those experiences, according to his description. “Strings Behind Bars” is also the title of a novel written by Asaad about their musical experience in the prison.

After the event concluded, the former detainees left the HAU Theater, walking under a light rain toward a nearby hotel where they were staying. Their shared moment together felt like a scene from the many years they had spent bound by fate, sharing food, drink, and experiences.

Prison Song or Political Song?

The following evening, the Tafakur Forum symposium (which can be viewed here) became a public space for discussing the existence of a Syrian “prison song” in the first place. Researcher Elaf engaged in an open discussion not only with some participants from his study who were present on the panel but also with many of the former detainees in the audience about whether there could even be such a thing as a “prison song.”

Concerning the classification of the series songs as prison songs, Elaf explained that he referred to Ibrahim Berqdar’s rendition of the song “Yamo,” originally performed by Duraid Lahham in the series. This, he noted, illustrated the extent to which detainees were impacted by cultural products they encountered prior to their arrests. While acknowledging that detainees experience fatigue from their past trauma, he emphasized that he always ensured a female psychiatrist was present to help mitigate these effects as much as possible. The emotional fatigue felt by the detainees ultimately prevented them from performing any prison songs during the second evening.

One contributor suggested that the more accurate term might be “political song.” He argued, “If we call every song sung by a criminal detainee a ‘prison song,’ would it be correct?” He also warned against labeling songs from the Duraid Lahham and Nihad Qala’i duo series as prison songs, pointing out that these songs were professionally created and filmed solely to serve the series.

In his research, Elaf classified the songs sung by the detainees during that period into three categories: complete prison songs, which were composed and arranged in prison; modified prison songs, which were songs performed outside before entering prison; and musical prison songs, which do not contain lyrics. During his research, Elaf was able to identify 34 songs and recover 14 of them. He hopes that at least the fourteen songs will be recorded today.

Elaf covers the prison song in Sednaya between 1987 (the year it was opened) and 1996, a different, certainly horrific period, but one that is distinct from the time in 2017 when Amnesty International described the prison as a “human slaughterhouse.” He says that he conducted nearly 100 hours of interviews with detainees who were members of the Communist Workers’ Party, active in the 1970s and 1980s. His reading of an article by the writer and former detainee Malik Daghistani on the Al-Jumhuriyah website motivated him to research further into this field, which had been absent from the research radar.

In his research, he mentions three teachers in Sednaya: Asaad Shalash, Samir Abdo (Abu al-Nada), and Haitham Qatrib, along with amusing competitive cases between Asaad and Abu al-Nada, who was nicknamed Sheikh Al Kar (The Master of the profession).

Elaf traces the stages of the spread of prison music, starting with the early days when teacher Asaad Shalash would run his hands over a piece of wood in the Palestine Branch to maintain the flexibility of his fingers. Then comes the fermentation and maturation phase in the late 1980s, in Sednaya prison, which witnessed the crafting and development of instruments, as well as other branches like the Palestine Branch. This is followed by a phase of decline and halting, though not entirely, in the early 1990s, due to various circumstances, including the release of musicians, their transfer, the destruction of their instruments, and the separation from their personal belongings.

Elaf’s study also explores prison music experiences in both European and Arab countries. He examines the reasons behind the absence and concealment of prison songs and the creation of prison musical instruments in the Syrian context. He notes that this research would not have come to fruition without the contributions of the detainees in exile, as it was impossible to carry out such work within Syria.

During both events in Berlin, a key point of discussion was how to address this musical phenomenon and its potential negative effects on detainees. Speakers and presenters questioned whether celebrating this phenomenon and the happy moments associated with it might inadvertently diminish the suffering that detainees experienced at the time.

Elaf hopes that this research will serve as a starting point for future studies on the subject of prison songs. Personally, he plans to embark on related research focusing on women’s prison songs. In addition, he envisions an “American tour,” where prisoners will hold a concert similar to the one held in Berlin. Furthermore, Elaf is working on a prison music museum project, which will feature instruments made in prison.

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People were full of excitement, while riot control vehicles waited outside, especially near the gates of the main venues. It felt like an unofficial holiday— but only for devoted listeners, hip-hop artists, and bloggers eager for new releases.

This all started with an unspoken idea that the last quarter of each year would be rap season. In an interview, Azzo, a music blogger and founder of Al-Rassa magazine, said, “For years, artists have looked forward to this season to release new music; it’s usually the peak time for hip-hop each year.”

He added that the idea of dedicating a day to Sudanese rap was a collaborative one. It’s unclear who exactly initiated it or how it came to be, but it was inspired by Sudan’s symbol: 249, aligning with September 24. However, Azzo clarified that the idea wasn’t entirely new; the global hip-hop community has long used regional or area codes as references, and this date became part of artists’ plans and fans’ expectations.

This year, however, all that anticipation has vanished, replaced by war and tragic memories. The hope is that life will return to rap, which had just begun to flourish in newfound freedom. To date, no events have been announced; the city that was once the epicenter of Sudanese hip-hop and had consistently celebrated this day is now empty, filled only with bullets and battlegrounds.

Before that?

“It’s the same labels over and over— lack of manners, rebelliousness, and similar descriptions,” says Mohamed Al-Mustafa (SB), a music blogger and founder of the Rakoba group, who has documented Sudanese rap since 2008. Al-Mustafa explains that early rap in Sudan took two main forms: “forum rap,” similar to Gulf rap with solo track releases, and a style where groups, like Noslang, The Circle, and the famous Nas Jota, worked to hold concerts and build a fanbase.

 For a long time, rap was isolated, with underground rappers limited to small circles and little acceptance. This isolation had several causes. Rap first appeared in the early 2000s, influenced by African-American and Gulf rap cultures, as most early rappers were either Sudanese raised in Gulf countries or those who naturally came across rap’s African-American style, which made it hard to attract diverse local audiences. Another big reason was the outright rejection of rap itself, with accusations against its music and lyrics. This rejection was stronger than the efforts to establish rap as a Sudanese art form.

Over time, Sudanese rappers worked hard to create something new, growing out of urban areas while acknowledging the gaps between them. When the late rapper Rana Bader Aldeen had the chance to appear on a local TV show, she performed a track expressing her desire for freedom and the public’s negative view of rap. For conservative groups, rap seemed too transparent, leading them to try to control public taste and limit the rap community, often with total rejection. Criticisms like “this isn’t Sudanese” and accusations of cultural alienation were at the core of this pushback.

“It can be said that the history of peoples without history is the history of their struggle against the state,” writes Pierre Clastres in Society Against the State.

It’s hard to say exactly when hip-hop started in Sudan since recording was mainly done by two government institutions, Sudanese Radio and Television, which didn’t do much to preserve rare recordings. Many of these recordings haven’t even been digitized. What we know is that in the early 1990s, Sudanese singer Yousif el-Mosley made one of the first rap attempts with his song Habayebna, released in 1994. 

The first Sudanese rap group, Born in Black, was formed in 1996 and released their debut album History in 2004. In the late 1990s, the band Hilahob became popular for mixing different art styles and took a step into rap with their music video Goroshi in 1999.

In the early 2000s, rap in Sudan began to take on a more serious tone, marked by Nile’s release of Ma Dayma Leek in 2003. Shortly after, the group Nas Jota rose to prominence due to their strong connection to Sudanese society and the clear social and political messages conveyed in their tracks. Their 2007 release, Nas Hiltna, solidified their popularity, as they played a pivotal role in anchoring rap within Sudanese culture and expressing the nation’s rebellious spirit and frustrations in the face of poverty and oppression. 

Around the same time, other musical groups began to emerge, organizing events in universities and public spaces. Among them was B4K in Khartoum, whose track Al-Raksha gained widespread recognition in 2013.

Rap and social movements

Rap became closely tied to the surrounding events, with uprisings and revolutions shaping the last decade of Sudanese rap. Songs emerged alongside protests, highlighting social and political issues in Sudan and turning public spaces and universities into stages for revolutionary rap. 

During the 2013 uprising, Nas Jota released No to Dictatorship. Later, the December 2018 revolution marked a major shift, with old revolutionary tracks resurfacing and rappers creating new songs that resonated with the revolution’s goals. Rap was present through both the revolution’s victories and its tragedies, capturing these moments and depicting scenes of protests, imprisonment, and military violence.

 Tracks were released that deeply resonated with the Sudanese people at the time, like Sudan Without Kizan and Nas Jota’s comeback track Tasqut Bas (Just Fall, That is All), which was the slogan of the time. Meanwhile, Flippter captured the brutal dispersal of the sit-in at the General Command on June 3, 2019, in his poignant song Blue.

In its cultural and social context, Sudanese rap has both celebrated Sudanese culture and highlighted the ethnic and social diversity of its artists, reflecting the multifaceted backgrounds of Sudanese society. This unique blend has given Sudanese rap a distinctive identity throughout its years-long journey of establishing itself. 

Notable examples include collaborations like Am Goron by Mo Rezeqi and Rexus, and Aboy el-Sheikh by Ali Naseraldeen and Esaam Satti Azzo. The founder of Al-Rassa magazine, asserts today that the ongoing crisis in Sudan, including its impact on the artistic sector and the rap scene, will not pose a significant obstacle for rappers. He acknowledges that the war has caused disruptions and delays in their work, but he is confident that they will eventually return with new tracks, many of which will likely capture the tragedies Sudan has experienced since the conflict began.

Azzo also highlighted recent releases by Soulja, such as Ayaam, which came out last July, and Tarat al-Tayara by Dafencii. He anticipates the release of more works as the final quarter of the year progresses.

From Sennar State, rapper and producer AlAmin Salah (All-moony) reinforces Azzo’s theory. After several days of trying to reach him for an interview—hindered by thousands of kilometers and a poor network connection— All-moony finally managed to send voice recordings, informing me that he had secured a stable connection. In these messages, he reflected on the period before April, discussing the evolution of Sudanese rap. He explained how rap had become increasingly tied to Sudan’s reality, embedding its culture and diverse backgrounds. 

This shift motivated him to develop his approach, transitioning to writing in Arabic after years of composing his songs in English. All-moony also revisited the projects he had planned to launch earlier this year, sharing his excitement about this significant milestone and his hope to release something truly remarkable on that date.

Before he could carry out his plans, All-moony woke up one day to find that everything he had envisioned was no longer possible. Forced to leave Khartoum, he now waits in the city of Sennar for the crisis to end, holding onto the hope of returning. However, he describes this hope as nothing more than a state of denial—a realization that pushed him to rise above the circumstances and begin work on an entirely new project.

In his latest album, Denial, All-moony portrays the daily lives and dreams of Khartoum’s displaced residents. The album charts their journey from the initial moment of displacement—what he refers to as “hour zero”—to the present, where many, caught in a state of denial, cling to the hope of returning to the life they knew before it all fell apart.

*This article was originally published in Arabic on Ma3azef. 

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Dozakhi is the frontman of a Berlin-based hardcore punk band called Zanjeer. The group consists of immigrants from Pakistan, Britain, Australia and the former Soviet Union, and they recently performed together with other international hardcore bands in Berlin at Decolonoize Mini-Fest, a collective that organises shows “the old punk way: From The Scene – For The Scene.” They also played at a solidarity night for aid in Palestine in Berlin, joined by bands from Israel, Germany and UK/Egypt, paving the way for a new direction for the local punk scene for taking action to make a difference.

“Thankfully, in cities like Berlin, there is a sizable Ausländer (foreigner) presence, and you always feel at home, more or less,” says Dozakhi. “The best part of the show for me was that so many South Asian leftists from the Berlin activist community came to show their support,” he adds. “It’s really important that punk as a culture or lifestyle continues to be accessible and intersectional… places like Berlin are a lot more diverse when it comes to the punk scene, though, and generally, you find loads of Eastern European and South American punks across the country.”

A history of punk in Germany

Looking at the history of punk in Germany, one aspect that has remained true is the urge to create an impact through protest against the status quo and the boredom of convention. In the mid-70s, when punk music gained popularity in the UK and the US, it trickled into Germany as well. What made this history interesting is how differently punk music’s impact partitioned Germans on either side of the wall.

Historically, German punk was about shocking people out of political complacency and state oppression. This feeling still holds true for punks now, especially those from migrant backgrounds who are trying to hold space and have their message heard in an otherwise non-accessible scene.

“It is a white-majority country, so of course it’s going to be like that,” says Dozakhi. “But you do have to pause and think when you see that other spaces, such as hip-hop and electronic music, have way more POCs in them compared to punk. And let’s not forget that Turks and Arabs have been here as guest workers for decades, and their children were born in Germany and had to develop their own subcultures because German society just wouldn’t accept them.”

Punk music in migrant languages

Zanjeer’s drummer, Steve, and Dozakhi both moved to Germany to pursue higher education and have been here for three and five years, respectively. Both have played in punk bands in their home countries, but upon starting Zanjeer, they decided to write music in languages attached to their identities. This helped set them apart from European bands and encouraged others in the scene from migrant backgrounds to do the same.

On their first EP titled Parcham Buland Ast (which means “The flag is high” in Farsi), there are songs in Punjabi, Urdu, and Farsi, creating an unexpected but harmonious mix. In fact, the band name ‘Zanjeer’ means ‘chain’ in Urdu, Hindi, and Farsi.

While Farsi is not Steve’s native language, it played a role in his life while connecting with family in Iran. Despite English being his ‘native’ language, Steve felt dissatisfaction with the lyrics he wrote in English. “I thought that as most listeners wouldn’t understand them straight away, it provided a veil of mystery that I found comforting,” shares Steve. “The response from fans has been great. People think it’s cool and necessary that punk bands are not just singing in Western languages. I’ve seen people get emotional hearing a language they have a connection to in a style of music they like, where they had never heard it before.”

According to Dozakhi, the impact of releasing two songs in Farsi has been larger than expected. The Iranian diaspora includes many dissidents. When some express to the band that they feel they have a voice in the punk scene, it is extremely significant for Zanjeer. “Honestly, I have so many Iranians—diaspora as well as locals—coming into our inbox, both punks and non-punks alike,” says Dozakhi. Through Zanjeer, the band members have come in contact with the emerging punk underground scene in Iran, such as the band TØF, who are in the process of releasing an EP soon.

Immigrant punks in Germany

As immigrants, there is still much to unpack when navigating the German punk scene, especially in the wake of the ongoing Israeli war on Palestine and Germany’s role in it, and how that trickles down into the country’s punk scene and its connections to the Antideutsche movement.

Things have been politically charged across Germany, especially with the recent local elections and the rise of the right-wing AfD, gaining popularity even among Gen Z voters. However, the punk scene has historically had a connection with the left, making the presence of the Antideutsche movement difficult for immigrants in the scene to understand.

“The automatic connection between punk and the political left has been an ongoing debate since punk has existed,” says Steve. “Some people take an internationalist solidarity stance, while for others, it’s more about personal autonomy and freedom of expression—not that these are mutually exclusive camps, of course.”

Because of the connection between punk and the political left, at some point, the Antideutsche movement became intertwined with parts of the German punk scene. However, over the past year, it has become increasingly clear that Antideutsche continues to be a harmful movement with less relevance over the years in left-wing politics.

Confronting the Antideutsche

Both Steve and Dozakhi have had run-ins with people in the music scene who share Antideutsche ideology. “I found it incredibly strange, almost offensive. The existence of this sect came as a big surprise to a lot of the international punk community post-October 7, 2023,” shares Steve. “But personally, I had been waiting for something like this to happen so that all these pro-military, pro-colonialist, pro-genocide ‘punks’ could start coming out of the woodwork.”

For Steve and Dozakhi, it is particularly insidious that this movement uses the historical context of Nazi genocide to display their sentiments against German heritage while being entitled to use it to preach what they believe is morally correct and justified.

“They aren’t consulting Jewish leftists or Israeli punks, or indeed anyone in the Middle East, when coming up with these arguments—just their own white German pseudo-intellectual circles,” says Steve. “We have connections with punk bands in Israel, and they can’t stand these Germans who feel entitled to speak on their behalf because of what their grandparents did or whatever. It’s totally messed up and sick.”

 

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Dozakhi adds: “I have even seen them cancel Israeli punk bands like Holocausts, labelling them anti-Semitic. As far as I know, they [Antideutsche] were not really the norm among German punks once, and I believe it will change eventually. There is already resistance to their ideas. Even Israeli punks, including some of my dear friends, really find them ridiculous.”

A punk community

Being an immigrant in a punk band in Germany, singing on stage while sporting a (banned) keffiyeh, and navigating the political stance of a country you want to turn into a home is excruciating in the current atmosphere if you want to have a voice. But for Zanjeer, the support for their music, not just in Germany but from international diasporas of Iranians, Pakistanis, and other European punks, has been a tremendous encouragement.

Dozakhi has been told by people from Los Angeles to New York that they feel inspired to make punk music in Farsi, as well as Urdu and Punjabi speakers who listen to Zanjeer. For Dozakhi, the mission of the band feels like a success, and he hopes that in his lifetime, he will be able to listen to punk in countless South Asian and West Asian languages.

“Honestly, I have only ever been humbled by the response of people whenever we play. They’re so happy to see people singing in different languages and coming from different places,” says Dozakhi. “I think that’s fucking beautiful and a testament to the internationalism of punk!”

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Despite the rejection of your visa application thrice and the considerable effort you put in to obtain it you were eventually granted the right to come and perform here in Europe. What is the significance of coming to Europe at this particular time and performing here in light of the genocide, the rise of fascist rhetoric, the banning of pro-Palestinian demonstrations and the silencing of their voices?

There are several levels to answering this question. Professionally, concerts in Europe are more organized and significant in terms of logistics and revenue, thus opening doors to larger networks and projects. On the other hand, even before the Gaza massacre, as musicians or artists from the “underground” world we constantly find ourselves tied to the conditions and funding from government-affiliated institutions, which makes our journey very challenging. Therefore, being outside this system and achieving this breakthrough means a lot to me personally and it can be an inspiration for many other artists who think of different ways to voice their thoughts beyond imposed paths.

Also, given what we have been experiencing in Gaza, South Lebanon, and anywhere in the world where protests are suppressed, it is crucial that our content reaches people in Europe, to make them feel connected to what is happening there. The interaction with the audience through these concerts gives them a sense of not being isolated from the events in their home countries. This emotional connection is very important. Our concerts are not just musical events; they are demonstrations with significant interaction and political slogans. In the European context, when concerts like these gather expatriates, migrants, and “people of color” under these slogans, it obviously does not please these countries’ governments. It is thus a multi-level victory. Finally, my mother is very happy to see me perform in Europe, which adds another personal but nevertheless significant dimension for me.

In general, it is important for me to perform these concerts now, especially since I’ve been living in Turkey and fully understand the value of connecting with any event from afar. Being the one who facilitates this connection in other countries and alleviates the burden of exile is, moreover, a significant achievement. I went to Switzerland at the beginning of this month, without knowing anyone; yet, the interaction with the production team and the audience was so wonderful I now consider them family. Performing two concerts there made me realize the importance of this kind of interaction.

The situation in Lebanon is difficult and in Turkey, the paperwork is daunting. Traveling  to Europe is almost impossible due to the complexities of obtaining a visa. I have a long history with visa issues, having had mine rejected twice by the German embassy and once by the French embassy. Recently, and  through friends’ mediation, I succeeded in obtaining  a three-month visa from the Swiss embassy,  which however only allows me to stay in the country for 45 days in a row, forcing me to go back and forth. In contrast, there are people in Europe who can travel easily, hold concerts in our countries, or come to eat shawarma and return without any trouble, thanks to the privileges inherited from their bloody colonial history.

Therefore, for me, not playing gigs in Europe has become a sensitive issue, one that repeats the Beirut scenario, where I put all my efforts into the city, but then ended up being told I couldn’t continue. Now I try to live off my music and to fulfill my responsibilities towards those I am accountable for. I cannot do this with a few gigs which wouldn’t cover the costs. So, it’s not just about having a gig in a European city but also getting a visa that allows me to move and work and tell the world ‘we are here’.  

In 2020, you wrote an article titled “Strangers” about your ambiguous relationship to Beirut, stating: “We truly loved Beirut, but we couldn’t access it.” You also mentioned in interviews that being in Turkey was conducive  to productivity and “peace of mind” despite the difficulties of exile. On the other hand, your songs about Beirut, such as “Beirut Disappointed Us,” “Beirut Strangled Us,” “The Era of Change,” “Revenge,” and finally “BiliBalid,” reflect changes in our relationship to the city over time. 

Despite the personal and collective grievances against it, there is something dear and complex in our relationship to Beirut, as we constantly seek places that resemble it despite its hideousness and cruelty. This was evident, for example, in the gratification you felt after your last concert in Beirut less than a year ago. Do you still think, as you wrote in the song “Hexaphobia,” “a thousand exiles are better than dying once in my country“? How has the image of Beirut evolved for you today? How do you deal with the reality of exile and the continuous feeling of displacement and detachment? 

We speak a lot in rap and the song is filled with texts that document the many traces of our past experiences. I started at 19 and I am now 37. I have been recording songs this entire period and overtime, the subjects I tackled  have changed significantly. Initially, Beirut was a place we had to go to, from the village, to look for job opportunities and better options than joining the army or Hezbollah. It was also a place where we faced rejection. Beirut was our enemy.

After a while, I lived in Beirut and its suburbs and I finally understood its relation with the peripheries and the surrounding poverty belts. Then I began to experience living within this belt, under the influence of the de facto parties, and felt the sense of estrangement that starts from home and the surroundings before it becomes an estrangement from the entire country. It is a similar estrangement I might feel when having to change my appearance or clothes before going back home. Estrangement is relative and not tied to geography and distance but rather to the sense of safety and to having the minimum rights. Thus, “a thousand exiles is better than dying once anywhere.” I don’t want to die but to survive, and to survive through music, the only thing I succeeded in.

When I left the city at the end of 2018 and came to Turkey, I was angry and eager to escape. I considered myself a surviving migrant. But moving to Turkey affected my expression and opened different perspectives. I learned a new language and got to know a new musical culture, allowing me to develop my personality and to understand things from a new angle while further freeing me from the constant pressure I felt in Lebanon. 

With time and distance, the affection for that place returned, the anger diminished, and the blame became meaningless. Unfortunately, after the Beirut explosion and successive crises, I began to feel that I belonged to this place for the first time while in Turkey. It wasn’t easy to reassess myself, especially since, at that time, I was accompanying my sick father, witnessing how things go in hospitals, and facing the daily crisis struggles. This made me realize that the problem is not just with the city and social relations, nor only with Hezbollah or the government, but it is bigger than that. We create imaginary enemies and engage in futile conflicts. We must start by fixing ourselves. I therefore no longer associate myself with the image of the Baalbek or Lebanese rapper, but as a person who expresses themselves in a certain way and who bears a message. This alleviates my estrangement; we are strangers from the moment we are born, constantly searching for a place to belong to.

Being away from Lebanon and living in Turkey, how have the themes you address in your music changed and have they intersected with other global struggles? What musical relationships have you been able to build? 

Having been in Turkey for a relatively long time, the local musical horizon has become clear to me. Most of the people I work with are based in Turkey. With those who aren’t, I communicate remotely over the internet, which is much easier compared to Lebanon. In Turkey, things have been good for me as a transitional station; it is not purely a European country nor purely an Arab country, but a suitable place to be. The music here resembles the music I work on, with its Eastern elements, which we try to mix with Western music in a way that makes sense, without straying too far away from our identity. I have learned a lot and built good relationships. Despite all this, I face some difficulty working with the Turks because my content is deemed not suitable. In addition,  as an Arab person, I enjoy a limited  level of freedom.

My stay in Turkey gave me a chance to see things from another angle. Instead of being immersed in the country’s problems and trying to vent anger, I can now understand them and seek solutions through my works. In 2022, I worked on a track titled “Safari,” which addressed white supremacy and colonial history in the third world, linking the slave trade from Africa and the genocides in Canada, Indonesia, and Australia with what we’ve been experiencing in our  struggles in Lebanon, Palestine, and the region. Despite some initial criticism back then, people reconnected with the content I was discussing after the Gaza war and widespread calls for the extermination of our people. 

I realized that music is not just a tool for venting anger but it can be a serious research project that raises important questions and encourages people to think. This gives me a push to continue on this path.

How do you see the role of music and rap in times of genocide, amidst the dehumanization of Palestinians and the exposure of global, particularly European, hypocrisy regarding human rights? Can music and concerts be a means of resistance, healing, and collective therapy in such times?

There are two aspects to the role of music. The first is a very personal one where I can express what I can do and what my role is. At least, I can say that I have done something, whether through the words I say or the energy I give in the concert. Of course, this is not enough, but at least it gives me the feeling that I am not just a passive witness to what is happening. On the other hand, music, especially rap, carries a lot of words, without being a newspaper or conference article but it has the power to last for a long time. In my current concerts, I sometimes go back to old songs I made in 2015 during the height of the Syrian revolution. These songs are used as testaments to certain events, so they are not forgotten. At a time when we are constantly being brainwashed and our priorities rearranged, I can use this music as a means to recharge people and raise their awareness of certain issues.

Currently, there might not be a need to charge people towards the Palestinian cause, but maybe in five or ten years, these songs will bring the issue back to the forefront of our memories and awareness, and influence our decisions. 

On a collective level, music brings us together and makes us feel our value as a group. In concerts, a person feels a sense of belonging and safety, knowing he/she is not alone in the face of what is happening. Their voice is multiplied by the number of people around them, enhancing trust as individuals and as a group, charging the anger within and creating a space for expression. Music has always been a fierce catalyst for struggle. Artists and poets have always been repressed because of their significant impact in the short and long term. For example, music played a crucial role in laying the foundations of liberation for African Americans as well as in the revolutions in Tunisia, Egypt, Iran, and Syria, hence the intersectionality of these struggles. 

Rap is not really an alien art form to our region, as it can be linked to traditional forms like Zajal and the local musical and poetic traditions. How do you describe the type of language you wish to present through rap? What language might the current moment impose whilst allowing you to imagine a different future?

In the nineties, we imported certain music to understand rap. I officially started my musical production in 2009, but before that, I worked on various musical experiments and released songs informally. I listened to previous experiments from the region, for example, from Algeria, where there were artists working on rap since the 80s and early 90s. 

The local identity has always been present in my music, as in my latest musical work, “Melatonin,” where it can be heard in the drumbeats. But the rap I prefer to listen to and create is direct rap, an unembellished rap without metaphors or poetic imagery, like Keny Arkana, Immortal Technique, and Dead Prez. These artists speak about politics directly, as if they were writing journalistic articles, but the difference is that they do it musically. 

I grew up listening to this type of music, so this is the direction I write in. Last year, when I held a concert in Beirut, it was the first time I collaborated with Beirut Records who organized the event. This collaboration was different from previous rap concerts in the country. Most of the audience wasn’t the usual crowd but people who connected with the content I presented and wanted to listen to it. This makes me feel comfortable when I write, as I realized I do not need to manipulate words to reach the audience. There is an audience that wants to hear the story as it is, which gives me a safe space.

As for what is happening now, it makes sense to me, and I did not expect otherwise. I only see live examples of what I previously talked about, when people said my music is dark, depressing, and violent. After the crisis and the changes of times, many of those who were part of the middle classes and were bothered at the time by this content now understand and engage with it. 

The misery was there but it has expanded to include more people, and those who spoke about this struggle will not change their language, it will only become blunter and more intense. We no longer need to explain; the current events speak for themselves. We witness horrifying stories, images, and videos, and read comments about who is responsible, and in the end, we are always blamed for our own death.

It’s dreadful that in our music, which is supposed to have a bright face, we have to constantly talk about attempts to prevent our killing with such brazenness, not just about our survival, without being given any other choice.

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A few months earlier, the toddler, Ali Dawabsheh (18 months old) was burned to death when settlers set fire to his family house in Duma village, south of Nablus city in the occupied West Bank. The house was then spray-painted with the words “Revenge” and “Long Live Messiah the King” alongside a Star of David. The parents later succumbed to their injuries in the hospital. 

Many condemned the video of the dancing youths, chanting and celebrating Dawabsheh’s death with guns and knives, but what strikes in the wedding video is the incorporation of rock music and dancing, which amplifies the violence and aggression of that moment. In this context, music not only acts as an auditory element, but also as a communal activity that builds a shared experience among a group against a common “enemy”. Psalm verses, “infidels’ roar”, and prayers for vengeance transform the emotional atmosphere into a quasi-religious ritual, deepening the collective sentiment and group harmony. This reinforces collective identity but also normalizes violence and cultivates a shared mindset of hatred. 

This video illustrates how songs and collective celebrations can become spaces for expressing violence and hatred. Music, often celebrated for empowerment, unveils a darker side in Ali Dawabsheh’s story, where it plays a crucial and active role in promoting enmity toward the Palestinians. 

Although this incident occurred a few years ago within what can be considered an extreme context at the time, one cannot ignore its resonance with current mainstream videos, songs and TikTok trends circulating on Israeli social media during the ongoing war on Gaza. These popular expressions carry not only hateful and violent messages but, in some instances, verge on the genocidal. Importantly, this current wave is not limited solely to extremist settlers but extends across broader segments of Israeli society through social media posts and music productions.

Songs play a significant role in shaping public opinion, identities, and attitudes in most cases. When they circulate widely on social media and contain inflammatory rhetoric, they can transport listeners into a world of patriotism, extremism, and aggression, with the desire to overpower and annihilate the enemy. They become an integral part of propagandist tools and militainment—entertainment featuring and celebrating the military. Examining songs or performances thus allows us to trace how they reflect the conceptions and imaginaries of a community and actively shape it. More importantly, analyzing it through the lenses of individual subjectivity along with collective identity reveals how music generates and constructs shared experiences. This is particularly true in times of war to dissect the narrative and symbols embedded in them, tracing their contribution to the war discourse and ultimately, cultivating an environment conducive to violence, dehumanization, and erasure.

From lullaby to torment: unmasking a disturbing weapon

Music and songs have frequently served as expressions of nationalistic feelings and extreme ideologies, particularly in times of war. However, in a context of extreme mobilization and militarization, the weaponizing of music and its use as a tool of erasure and a conduit for hate messages that contribute to the war effort and incite violence, becomes even more pronounced and alarming. This is particularly evident in the case of Israel’s aggressive assault on Gaza, where Israel stands as a dominant, militarized, and powerful state, which strives to shape the local and the global discourse while inflicting widespread destruction on Gazan neighborhoods, schools, hospitals, and carrying out massacres. 

In the initial days of the war on Gaza, a troubling trend surfaced on TikTok, originating from a video depicting Israeli soldiers abusing and subjecting blindfolded Palestinian detainees in the occupied West Bank to the relentless repetition of a children’s song “Meni Mamtera” by the singer Meni Tzukerl, as documented by the Palestinian writer and analyst Muhammad Shehada. The Israeli media cynically called it a “humorous and original story” and “Israel’s secret weapon”, as it was used to force the detainees to listen to this song for more than eight hours. Some were further humiliated by being obliged to chant “Long live Israel” or carry the Israeli flag, amplifying their sense of powerlessness and impotence. The trend not only minimized the traumatic experiences of the detained and tortured Palestinians, but also incited mockery as Israelis filmed and shared videos mimicking these degrading actions to the lullaby’s tune. 

Even a former Knesset member and a program host on Israel’s Channel 14, Yinen Magal, reenacted the scenes with his own children. An Israeli soldier posted a TikTok video singing while transporting blindfolded Palestinian detainees as part of another TikTok challenge to kidnap and blindfold Palestinians. The lullaby was also played at weddings, where participants simulated detainees by sitting blindfolded and listening to the song, and the singer Meni Tzukerl was celebrated as a “national hero”.

 The initial prisoner videos show Palestinian detainees enduring more than just physical abuse and violence on their bodies. The relentless exposure to hours of repetitive music subjects them to a form of degradation that infiltrates their hearts and minds. Incapable to speak or see, the prisoners are stripped of their human existence, reduced to mere bodies devoid of feelings or political rights, making their suffering insignificant. Beyond the evident violation of the detainees’ humanity and dignity in these initial videos, the lullaby TikTok trend utilizes the same playful or innocent tune to mock their suffering as subhuman. The repetitive and cumulative use of this song desensitizes viewers to the profound suffering of the prisoners, minimizing the severity of the situation and normalizing their mistreatment. 

In these different videos, the prisoners have no face, no life stories, no voice, all that remains is an Israeli song, torturing anonymous bodies… Taken outside of time, space and humanity, the prisoners are excluded from both human and political communities, treated as dispensable entities without rights or protections. Palestinian stories and voices are once again erased and made invisible and muted, while the Israeli narrative and vision are overly imposed. As a result, these videos contribute to the silencing of the Palestinians, their systematic dehumanization and the normalization of violence. 

Furthermore, in a context of a continuous portrayal of the Palestinians as barbaric and “human animals” in the Israeli discourse, the TikTok trend legitimizes Israeli crimes against them and rationalizes acts approaching genocide. 

Sounding aggression in popular culture

In this disturbing environment, music video clips use music, lyrics, visuals, and cultural symbols to disseminate ideas that either endorse or incite mass murder. One notable example is the song “Harbu Darbu” by the Duo Ness Ve Stilla Nesia, which was released during the ongoing war, and gained widespread popularity in Israel. Dominating music platforms for weeks, it reached number one on the Israeli streaming platform singles chart hitlist. 

The expression “Harbu Darbu” originating from Syrian Arabic and meaning “war and strikes,” is actually a call in Hebrew slang for “raining hell” on Israel’s opponents. The song employs derogatory terms, calling Palestinians “rats and sons of Amalek”. This reference to an ancient tribe, portrayed in the Torah as the eternal enemy of the Jewish people that needs to be annihilated, echoes the words of the Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu at the start of the ground invasion of Gaza. It reflects how political statements can circulate, infiltrate the mind and reappear in popular culture. This biblical reference has long been used by the Israeli far right to justify violence against Palestinians. In this war, it serves to justify the brutal assault on Gazans and add a religious connotation to the war. This is clear in another video shared on X (formerly Twitter) by Israeli journalist Yinon Magal, showing soldiers advocating the occupation of Gaza and calling for the eradication of the “seed of Amalek”, while denying the existence of “innocent civilians” in Gaza.

In this general narrative, everyone in Gaza becomes a target, justifying the collective punishment and the legitimate annihilation of the entire population, as chanted in the song “Harbu Darbu”. The song not only glorifies the soldiers but also applauds the IDF’s massive military aggression over Gaza, calling for more destruction, military actions and displacement. As it praises the inscription of Israeli children’s names on bombs dropped on Gaza, it paints a picture of a society striving for revenge and ready for battle. The trap music of the song further intensifies the atmosphere with its quick tempo and rhythmic patterns. Set to a drill beat that accentuates aggression, the singers “spit” on those who call for a “Free Palestine”, praise their erasure and end the video with a message in Arabic stating “every dog’s day will come”. 

The song’s success is reflected in its excessive use in a trend on TikTok. Many Israelis made videos using the song to show their support for the war. As they dance and salute the military, they also chant “one two … shoot” while mimicking shooting gestures with their hands. Others praised the song as a source of healing for the Israeli youth, considering it a way to overcome the depression of the early days of the war by channeling and expressing anger. Indeed, Hamas’ attack on 7 October left the Israeli society in shock, creating the “depression” experienced in the early days. However, the song expresses very well how this depression quickly turned into a prevailing, general will, not only to crush Hamas, but to extract revenge on all Palestinians and erase Gaza, reflecting a determination to restore Israel’s image and ensure its security through a new Nakba imposed on the entire Palestinian population. 

“The friendship song 2023”: A disturbing narrative of war and nationalism 

But songs do more than convey hate and violent messages; they also facilitate crafting historical narratives and promote shaping extreme nationalist identities, especially in times of war, as exemplified by the “Friendship song 2023”. Sung by Israeli children, and co-written by Shulamit Stolero and Ofer Rosenbaum, the chairperson of the Civil Front, the composition provoked controversy and outrage. It was created for the purpose of supporting the war effort by the Civil Front, which, despite its seemingly “civic” name, is an Israeli group, formed after 7 October, to mobilize the Israeli society to support the war on Gaza. The video was removed from YouTube for violating its terms of services. It was also shared, then quickly removed by Kan, an Israeli state-owned news channel, after the angry global responses it received.

The song is an adaptation of a renowned poem and song from 1949, commemorating Jews killed during the establishment of the Israeli state, one year after the Palestinian Nakba. The 2023 version serves as an affirmation and reconstruction of the foundational moment of 1948 Israeli identity in the aftermath of the Shoah. Rejoining the two historical moments of the post Nakba to the current moment, of the ongoing war against Gaza, serves as a significant element in forming and crafting the country’s narrative and history.

The video features children singing, their faces turned towards each other and sometimes directly to the camera. In a few scenes, the Israeli flag in the background enhances the moments of nationalistic sentiments. The opening stanza paints a serene picture of an “Autumn night” over the beach of Gaza, accompanied by the innocent and calm singing of the children. However, this tranquility is shattered by lyrics calling for bombing and destruction, accompanied by imagery portraying the devastating erasure of Gaza. As the music accelerates, the song envisions a future where, after eliminating the Palestinians, Israeli soldiers will return home to cultivate their fields following the annihilation of everyone in Gaza.   

The second stanza starts with an emotional description of a “love sanctified with blood”, expressing the nation’s cry and fight. The nationalistic discourse is reinforced in the declaration of “one people, The people of forever evermore.” By drawing a historical and metaphorical parallel between Palestinians, the “Swastika-bearers”, and the Nazis, the memories of the Holocaust are used to equate Palestinians with the Nazis and to reinforce the animosity against them. Like the Amalek reference in “Harbu Darbu”, this comparison subtly alludes to Israel as a persecuted nation, with natural and historical rights to the land, hence its duty to protect it. Despite this alleged vulnerability and victimhood, the military-themed music and language mixed with brutal visuals—  including bombs, airplanes, the Israeli flag, soldiers in action or mourning, collapsing buildings, and aerial footage of bombings—  promote a narrative of violence, displacement, and military superiority, while portraying Palestinians as eternal enemies, and justifying destructive acts against them.

The collective voice of children contributes to constructing a future and a collective narrative. Associated with the establishment of Israel and the memory of the Shoah, it reminds the Israeli audience of an imagined historical continuity: from a past of independence after a long-victimized history, to a present where the Israeli nation faces a renewed threat (of the “Swastika-bearers”), it envisions a future of victory after the enemy’s erasure. 

In this process, the song not only legitimizes the killing and elimination of the eternal enemy, but also shapes extreme nationalist sentiments and deforms historical realities. It affirms the dominance of the Israeli historical narrative, placing significant emphasis on the beginning of a new/old chapter on 7 October. Ironically, in the meantime, any attempt to contextualize historically the Palestinian narrative including their suffering and loss is still denied and erased, particularly during this war, as if Palestinian experiences since the Nakba never existed or truly do not matter. 

Unveiling hate narratives in the Israeli war on Gaza

 The exploration of hate-laden narratives in the Israeli soundscape during times of war reveals a violent landscape marked by explicit threats, erasure, and the dehumanization of the Palestinians. These elements foster a culture of hatred and aggression, aggravating the ongoing war on Gaza. They often shape the narrative by framing it as an eternal religious conflict or de-historicizing the colonial struggle. Yet, it remains crucial to grasp their intent to incite violence within the context of war, forced displacement, and explicit calls for mass killing. This is particularly true when the intended audience can decode the messages and understand the metaphors. 

From a legal perspective, proving genocide is already a complex challenge, particularly when the mass killing of civilians is presented as acts of self-defense against security threats, and the complete destruction of Gaza and Gazans is framed as a pursuit of “victory” over Hamas rather than the “systematic destruction” of an entire population. 

Establishing intent for genocide becomes even more complicated when dealing with hate-filled songs or messages. However, drawing parallels with precedents such as the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda’s ruling on songs like “I hate these Hutus” by the Hutu artist Simon Bikindi recognized as incitement to genocide, strengthens the argument that music and media can significantly contribute to the broader landscape of conflict, hatred, and violence in the Israeli war on Gaza context.

In her work on the impact of radio broadcast on genocidal rhetoric, Carole Pauli, a Professor at Texas A&M University Law School, identifies interconnected factors that effectively promote hatred against minorities and encourage calls for harm. In order to decode media messages that form incitement to genocide, and urge other states to intervene and stop the crime, she elaborates a seven factors framework. Among these factors, she observes the existence of competing media channels disseminating messages of hatred, political instability, the influential role of leaders in spreading harmful narratives and their authoritative image, the audience’s vulnerability, and the immediacy and power of the communication channel.

While some may argue that isolated incidents, like the 2015 video depicting Ali Dawabsheh’s stabbing, are “deviations” condemned even among segments of the Israeli society, the prevalence of hate-laden songs and videos on the Israeli social media during the ongoing war on Gaza suggests a normalization of such brutal actions. 

This normalization is already spread in the general language used by Israeli politicians amidst an ongoing mass killing in Gaza of more than 26,000 people, the ethnic cleansing and the displacement of 1.9 million people (85% of the total population of Gaza), all while the world is watching. Songs like “Harbu Darbu” and “The Friendship Song 2023” utilize the media to intensify the militant and dehumanizing narrative, cultivate hatred, and foster a thirst for revenge among listeners in a context of mass violence described by many genocide scholars as indeed a genocide.

The interplay between media, politics, and music in this context stresses the urgent need to address and challenge hate narratives spread in popular culture. Their prevalence not only reflects the fragility of human rights discourses but also raises questions about our capacity to prevent or stop war crimes and genocide (along with incitement). It prompts us to reconsider the Genocide Convention, which fails to deem modern states’ discourse and warfare as illegitimate, particularly as in the case of a settler colonial state that attempts to erase a people, its history, and its narrative since 1948. 

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