Theia Chatelle
TEEN VOGUE
Bashar Murad has always been hesitant to claim the label “pop singer.” He feels it can distract from the political overtones present in his music, which are always a driving force behind his creativity; still, pop music has the power to embed discussions of contemporary issues into uplifting beats. “I don't want to be an educator or a professor preaching to people,” he tells Teen Vogue, “but [I want] to talk about different things in subtle ways through my music.”
Murad's music deals with topics many artists are afraid to approach: the Israeli occupation, the violence of daily life as a Palestinian, and how he remains hopeful despite it all. While thirty-year-old Murad is Palestinian, he is also queer. And it is this convergence of identities that informs his work. “We [Palestinians] have the experience of queer people in most places of the world, but on top of that, we're also living under occupation,” Murad says.
By imbuing his music with his own personal (and political) touch, Murad is able to reshape his listener’s understanding of queer life in Palestine that goes beyond “Arabs are homophobic” and explores the intricacies of occupation, family, and conservatism that those in the West also experience in their own lives. “I've always been about breaking stereotypes,” he says. “The mindset that I’ve always had is to show something completely opposite of what you’d expect to see and the sounds you’d expect to hear.”
Murad wears Hazar Jawabra.Photo by Fadi Dahabreh
Murad wears Hazar Jawabra.Photo by Fadi Dahabreh.
There was never any question that music was to be a part of Murad’s life. He is the son of Said Murad, who became Palestinian music royalty through his ‘80s alternative group Sabreen, widely acknowledged as the first alt Palestinian band. Ask anyone in the West Bank about Sabreen, and they’ll mention Said Murad. In East Jerusalem, Sabreen's presence is a reminder that the Palestinian performing arts scene is alive and full of possibility.
Bashar Murad’s father never explicitly encouraged or discouraged him from pursuing it as a career path. But as a child, Murad practically lived at Sabreen’s studio in Sheikh Jarrah, a predominantly Palestinian neighborhood in Jerusalem which in 2021 was the subject of targeted evictions by the Israeli government culminating in the #SaveSheikhJarrah campaign.
“The studio was like my playground where I could go have fun on the keyboard or just experiment as a child,” Murad says. It wasn’t that his father expected his child to continue the family legacy, but that the more time Murad spent in the presence of Sabreen, the more he was drawn to it.
I had the opportunity to visit Murad at Sabreen’s studio in early June, and while speaking with him, it became clear that both his father and Sabreen have had a profound impact on his approach to music. Anyone who spends time with Murad and his father will realize that songwriting is a shared language for the two. “Like how I learned to speak Arabic, I was born into it,” Murad says before pausing to take a drag from his cigarette.
While Sabreen is no longer active, Murad’s father now runs the Sabreen Association for Artistic Development — an offshoot of the band founded in 1987 — that works to cultivate the artistic voices of Palestinians, providing both financial and technical assistance. Complete with a recording studio and performance space, Sabreen’s office is a staple of Sheikh Jarrah’s performing arts scene.
Murad is still involved with the association. In early June he partnered with Sabreen to host a DJ workshop for young Palestinian women, a project he hopes to continue in the future. During my visit, Murad and I briefly interrupted a producing session for a music video sponsored by the association. But it’s also clear that Murad is still working to cultivate his own image. Family, and his home and culture, are incredibly important to him; they’re not something that he seeks to abandon, but rather to treat as a source of inspiration as opposed to a dominating force in his music.
Photo by Bernhard Kristinn
Photo by Bernhard Kristinn
Murad left Palestine in 2016 to study music at Bridgewater College in Virginia. Sponsored by Amideast’s Hope Fund, which is “dedicated to fulfilling the dreams of deserving Palestinian youth,” Murad was able to attend university free-of-charge in the U.S.
He began his studies at Bridgewater as a music major, but upon discovering the only program offered was in classical music, he switched to communications. There were a few other Palestinian students on campus — the Hope Fund sends Palestinian students to only select universities in the U.S. — but he still felt that students didn’t know how to respond to his presence.
While Murad admits he was lucky to be able to study in America, it wasn’t what he expected. “I imagined a big city like New York. So when I ended up there, it was definitely a shock. It seemed like it was even smaller than Jerusalem,” Murad says. “When I would say I’m Palestinian, no one would know where that is. They would say Pakistan or something, and I’d have to say ‘Where Jesus was born’ to connect the dots for them,” Murad adds with a forced laugh.
Living in Virginia wasn’t quite the experience he anticipated, but Murad still found a way to build a community in the midst of discomfort. He considered staying in the U.S. on a short-term visa to explore the music scene, “But I missed home so much, so I decided to come back,” he says.
If Murad had decided to stay in the U.S. to continue his studies and hopefully make it as an artist, it wouldn’t have been a surprise to his community back home in Palestine. “A lot of people, they go to college, they graduate, and then they don’t come back. They just don’t see Palestine as a place they can grow,” Murad explains.
Leaving for America is difficult enough as a Palestinian student. They first have to apply for a U.S. student visa, then most cross the border into Jordan via Allenby/King Hussein Bridge (a crossing controlled by Israel) and leave from Amman. All the while, they risk being detained or denied permission to travel altogether. To return to Palestine after leaving illustrates a remarkable degree of loyalty to one’s homeland.
Murad knows this, which is why in addition to writing and producing his own music, he has dedicated himself to improving opportunities for Palestinian artists so that they choose to stay. Part of this is out of Murad’s control — according to Murad, without international attention and financial support flowing into Palestine, artists will continue to be forced to leave to chase after the resources those in the West take for granted.
Photo by Fadi Dahabreh.
But TikTok has started to level the playing field. The platform has fundamentally changed the music industry, giving artists a chance to broaden their reach without the support of record labels. Simultaneously, there are drawbacks to TikTok success — or attempted success. Artists in Palestine, like in the rest of the world, have realized that producing content and subsequently building a brand supersedes the quality of one’s sound.
For better or worse, Murad acknowledges this reality: “[The record labels] don't want to do the work to build up artists. They want to see if you have followers already, and then they invest in you.” So Murad has become a part-time content creator and social media manager. It’s part of the game, and if he wants to expand his audience without industry support, he doesn’t have a choice.
That reality is also changing. “In the past couple of years, it feels like the music industry has been blooming here in Palestine,” Murad says hopefully. He points to Elyanna, a Palestinian-Chilean singer-songwriter who recently performed at Coachella, and Sama’ Abdulhadi, an up-and-coming Palestinian DJ whose Boiler Room performance has 11 million views on YouTube.
The world is finally recognizing the talent that has always existed in Palestine, and Murad is excited to see where it goes. Universal Arabic Music, a subsidiary of the massive record label Universal Music Group, was launched in 2021 with the hopes of bringing Arab artists to Western audiences. Meanwhile, the Palestine Music Expo was held for the first time in 2017, bringing both technical training and performances to the occupied territories. In 2020, the Expo launched a streaming project to highlight the work of artists in Gaza who face movement restrictions due to an ongoing blockade.
Photo by Bernhard Kristinn.
“Ya Lel,” or “The Night” is Murad’s latest single (part of his upcoming EP) and a tribute to the hope he found in the ugliest of times — he wrote the song after the violence in Sheikh Jarrah in 2021, and in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic. Every time he thought of quitting music or of Sheikh Jarrah being attacked by Israeli settlers, he returned to the darkness and remembered that he survived and grew from the chaos.
“Ya Lel” isn’t just a testament to Murad and Palestine’s ability to survive, but “turning ugliness, which there is so much of it here, into beauty,” Murad adds. It is the story of the parallel between the beauty of solitude and the darkness he finds within. When he retreats into the depths of his own mind, he says he reaches a heightened level of creativity.
“Ya Lel” stands in stark contrast to Murad’s earlier work. “Maskhara” and “Antenne,” two of Murad’s most well-known songs, are fast-paced with light instrumentals. The two still highlight Palestinian resistance, but do so in a way amenable to the core principles of pop music: keep it light, keep it happy. Even Murad’s “Intifada on the Dance Floor” is lighthearted and upbeat, an attempt by Murad to subvert the usage of the term "intifada," which means uprising, and has generally referred to two Palestinians uprisings against the Israeli occupation that resulted in thousands of Palestinian and Israeli deaths.
Murad emphasizes that he takes every song and every music video as an opportunity to highlight local artists and designers. “Ya Lel” was supported by a grant from the British Council, and produced in collaboration with Chin Injeti, who Murad was connected with through Levantine, an indie music producer focused on the Middle East and North Africa. Even the “informal party,” as Murad stressed, celebrating the launch of “Ya Lel,” was something of a community affair. Murad’s father, friends (many of whom worked on the production of the video), and relatives gathered at the British Council in Sheikh Jarrah to celebrate his work. While I was there, we couldn’t help but bump into one of his childhood friends or neighbors. And Murad prefers it that way. Murad views it as his personal responsibility to ensure the artistic community in Palestine has all the homegrown support they need — which was apparent as Murad and I walked through Sheikh Jarrah.
After all, without community, there is no hope. “As a Palestinian, you’re constantly hearing about people being killed,” Murad says. “We are constantly surrounded by death and by the culture of death.” The only way to survive it is to find hope along the way.
Murad wears Hazar Jawabra.Photo by Fadi Dahabreh.
Wed, August 9, 2023
Originally Appeared on Teen Vogue
Bashar Murad has always been hesitant to claim the label “pop singer.” He feels it can distract from the political overtones present in his music, which are always a driving force behind his creativity; still, pop music has the power to embed discussions of contemporary issues into uplifting beats. “I don't want to be an educator or a professor preaching to people,” he tells Teen Vogue, “but [I want] to talk about different things in subtle ways through my music.”
Murad's music deals with topics many artists are afraid to approach: the Israeli occupation, the violence of daily life as a Palestinian, and how he remains hopeful despite it all. While thirty-year-old Murad is Palestinian, he is also queer. And it is this convergence of identities that informs his work. “We [Palestinians] have the experience of queer people in most places of the world, but on top of that, we're also living under occupation,” Murad says.
By imbuing his music with his own personal (and political) touch, Murad is able to reshape his listener’s understanding of queer life in Palestine that goes beyond “Arabs are homophobic” and explores the intricacies of occupation, family, and conservatism that those in the West also experience in their own lives. “I've always been about breaking stereotypes,” he says. “The mindset that I’ve always had is to show something completely opposite of what you’d expect to see and the sounds you’d expect to hear.”
Murad wears Hazar Jawabra.Photo by Fadi Dahabreh
Murad wears Hazar Jawabra.Photo by Fadi Dahabreh.
There was never any question that music was to be a part of Murad’s life. He is the son of Said Murad, who became Palestinian music royalty through his ‘80s alternative group Sabreen, widely acknowledged as the first alt Palestinian band. Ask anyone in the West Bank about Sabreen, and they’ll mention Said Murad. In East Jerusalem, Sabreen's presence is a reminder that the Palestinian performing arts scene is alive and full of possibility.
Bashar Murad’s father never explicitly encouraged or discouraged him from pursuing it as a career path. But as a child, Murad practically lived at Sabreen’s studio in Sheikh Jarrah, a predominantly Palestinian neighborhood in Jerusalem which in 2021 was the subject of targeted evictions by the Israeli government culminating in the #SaveSheikhJarrah campaign.
“The studio was like my playground where I could go have fun on the keyboard or just experiment as a child,” Murad says. It wasn’t that his father expected his child to continue the family legacy, but that the more time Murad spent in the presence of Sabreen, the more he was drawn to it.
I had the opportunity to visit Murad at Sabreen’s studio in early June, and while speaking with him, it became clear that both his father and Sabreen have had a profound impact on his approach to music. Anyone who spends time with Murad and his father will realize that songwriting is a shared language for the two. “Like how I learned to speak Arabic, I was born into it,” Murad says before pausing to take a drag from his cigarette.
While Sabreen is no longer active, Murad’s father now runs the Sabreen Association for Artistic Development — an offshoot of the band founded in 1987 — that works to cultivate the artistic voices of Palestinians, providing both financial and technical assistance. Complete with a recording studio and performance space, Sabreen’s office is a staple of Sheikh Jarrah’s performing arts scene.
Murad is still involved with the association. In early June he partnered with Sabreen to host a DJ workshop for young Palestinian women, a project he hopes to continue in the future. During my visit, Murad and I briefly interrupted a producing session for a music video sponsored by the association. But it’s also clear that Murad is still working to cultivate his own image. Family, and his home and culture, are incredibly important to him; they’re not something that he seeks to abandon, but rather to treat as a source of inspiration as opposed to a dominating force in his music.
Photo by Bernhard Kristinn
Photo by Bernhard Kristinn
Murad left Palestine in 2016 to study music at Bridgewater College in Virginia. Sponsored by Amideast’s Hope Fund, which is “dedicated to fulfilling the dreams of deserving Palestinian youth,” Murad was able to attend university free-of-charge in the U.S.
He began his studies at Bridgewater as a music major, but upon discovering the only program offered was in classical music, he switched to communications. There were a few other Palestinian students on campus — the Hope Fund sends Palestinian students to only select universities in the U.S. — but he still felt that students didn’t know how to respond to his presence.
While Murad admits he was lucky to be able to study in America, it wasn’t what he expected. “I imagined a big city like New York. So when I ended up there, it was definitely a shock. It seemed like it was even smaller than Jerusalem,” Murad says. “When I would say I’m Palestinian, no one would know where that is. They would say Pakistan or something, and I’d have to say ‘Where Jesus was born’ to connect the dots for them,” Murad adds with a forced laugh.
Living in Virginia wasn’t quite the experience he anticipated, but Murad still found a way to build a community in the midst of discomfort. He considered staying in the U.S. on a short-term visa to explore the music scene, “But I missed home so much, so I decided to come back,” he says.
If Murad had decided to stay in the U.S. to continue his studies and hopefully make it as an artist, it wouldn’t have been a surprise to his community back home in Palestine. “A lot of people, they go to college, they graduate, and then they don’t come back. They just don’t see Palestine as a place they can grow,” Murad explains.
Leaving for America is difficult enough as a Palestinian student. They first have to apply for a U.S. student visa, then most cross the border into Jordan via Allenby/King Hussein Bridge (a crossing controlled by Israel) and leave from Amman. All the while, they risk being detained or denied permission to travel altogether. To return to Palestine after leaving illustrates a remarkable degree of loyalty to one’s homeland.
Murad knows this, which is why in addition to writing and producing his own music, he has dedicated himself to improving opportunities for Palestinian artists so that they choose to stay. Part of this is out of Murad’s control — according to Murad, without international attention and financial support flowing into Palestine, artists will continue to be forced to leave to chase after the resources those in the West take for granted.
Photo by Fadi Dahabreh.
But TikTok has started to level the playing field. The platform has fundamentally changed the music industry, giving artists a chance to broaden their reach without the support of record labels. Simultaneously, there are drawbacks to TikTok success — or attempted success. Artists in Palestine, like in the rest of the world, have realized that producing content and subsequently building a brand supersedes the quality of one’s sound.
For better or worse, Murad acknowledges this reality: “[The record labels] don't want to do the work to build up artists. They want to see if you have followers already, and then they invest in you.” So Murad has become a part-time content creator and social media manager. It’s part of the game, and if he wants to expand his audience without industry support, he doesn’t have a choice.
That reality is also changing. “In the past couple of years, it feels like the music industry has been blooming here in Palestine,” Murad says hopefully. He points to Elyanna, a Palestinian-Chilean singer-songwriter who recently performed at Coachella, and Sama’ Abdulhadi, an up-and-coming Palestinian DJ whose Boiler Room performance has 11 million views on YouTube.
The world is finally recognizing the talent that has always existed in Palestine, and Murad is excited to see where it goes. Universal Arabic Music, a subsidiary of the massive record label Universal Music Group, was launched in 2021 with the hopes of bringing Arab artists to Western audiences. Meanwhile, the Palestine Music Expo was held for the first time in 2017, bringing both technical training and performances to the occupied territories. In 2020, the Expo launched a streaming project to highlight the work of artists in Gaza who face movement restrictions due to an ongoing blockade.
Photo by Bernhard Kristinn.
“Ya Lel,” or “The Night” is Murad’s latest single (part of his upcoming EP) and a tribute to the hope he found in the ugliest of times — he wrote the song after the violence in Sheikh Jarrah in 2021, and in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic. Every time he thought of quitting music or of Sheikh Jarrah being attacked by Israeli settlers, he returned to the darkness and remembered that he survived and grew from the chaos.
“Ya Lel” isn’t just a testament to Murad and Palestine’s ability to survive, but “turning ugliness, which there is so much of it here, into beauty,” Murad adds. It is the story of the parallel between the beauty of solitude and the darkness he finds within. When he retreats into the depths of his own mind, he says he reaches a heightened level of creativity.
“Ya Lel” stands in stark contrast to Murad’s earlier work. “Maskhara” and “Antenne,” two of Murad’s most well-known songs, are fast-paced with light instrumentals. The two still highlight Palestinian resistance, but do so in a way amenable to the core principles of pop music: keep it light, keep it happy. Even Murad’s “Intifada on the Dance Floor” is lighthearted and upbeat, an attempt by Murad to subvert the usage of the term "intifada," which means uprising, and has generally referred to two Palestinians uprisings against the Israeli occupation that resulted in thousands of Palestinian and Israeli deaths.
Murad emphasizes that he takes every song and every music video as an opportunity to highlight local artists and designers. “Ya Lel” was supported by a grant from the British Council, and produced in collaboration with Chin Injeti, who Murad was connected with through Levantine, an indie music producer focused on the Middle East and North Africa. Even the “informal party,” as Murad stressed, celebrating the launch of “Ya Lel,” was something of a community affair. Murad’s father, friends (many of whom worked on the production of the video), and relatives gathered at the British Council in Sheikh Jarrah to celebrate his work. While I was there, we couldn’t help but bump into one of his childhood friends or neighbors. And Murad prefers it that way. Murad views it as his personal responsibility to ensure the artistic community in Palestine has all the homegrown support they need — which was apparent as Murad and I walked through Sheikh Jarrah.
After all, without community, there is no hope. “As a Palestinian, you’re constantly hearing about people being killed,” Murad says. “We are constantly surrounded by death and by the culture of death.” The only way to survive it is to find hope along the way.
Murad wears Hazar Jawabra.Photo by Fadi Dahabreh.
Wed, August 9, 2023
Originally Appeared on Teen Vogue
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