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Over pulsing synths, a baritone voice sings in Arabic, “My homeland, my homeland / The youth will not tire, ’til your independence.” The song is a cover of “Mawtini,” the unofficial anthem for Palestinians and other colonized peoples in the middle east throughout the 20th century. The voice belongs to Jerusalem-based Palestinian interdisciplinary artist and pop singer Bashar Murad.
“Mawtini” (“my homeland” in English) was originally composed in 1934 by Ibrahim Tuqan, a poet from Nablus, Palestine. Although it would later be replaced with the official anthem “Fidai'i”, after the British Mandate, “Mawtini” remains a defining song of Palestinian land and struggle; recently, a video of doctors in Gaza singing it circulated online. Listening to Murad’s haunting rendition amid such incomprehensible violence, one is struck by the reminder that the Palestinian cause has always been about more than survival, but freedom.
Born into a musical family, Murad dreamed of being a performer and a big entertainer. His father, Said Murad, was a founding member of the iconic Palestinian band Sabreen, whose discography combines Arab and Western compositions with poetry by seminal Palestinian and Arab writers, including Mahmoud Darwish, Fadwa Tuqan, Hussein Barghouthi, and many more.
A pop artist, Murad’s music pushes the boundaries of what most people might understand as pop. From the country twang present in “Shillet Hamal” to the club banger “Intifada on the Dance Floor” to the mournful ballad “Ya Lel,” Murad plays with the borders of the genre, showing that, as he puts it, “the beauty of pop is in its freedom.” At the end of the day, he tells me, pop is “music for the masses, and my mission has always been to bring Palestine into the mainstream.”
Recently, I sat down with Bashar to discuss his artistry, the fashion and visuals (which he directs) that accompany it, the role of the cultural worker both in the West and the Arab world, and how people around the world can stand in solidarity with the Palestinian cause for freedom.
You released a cover of “Mawtini” a couple weeks ago, the unofficial Palestinian national anthem. Can you talk about why that song and why now? What did you want to say with your rendition?
I’ve been covering this song for the past year and a half during my live shows. It’s been ready for a while now but I just wasn’t sure when the right time to release it was. But after seeing the heightened dehumanization of Palestinians since October 7, it really got to me. In the song there’s this longing for freedom and homeland. It’s sad that we’ve been singing this same song — our grandparents, our parents, and now my generation and the one after mine — for 75 years, and we still haven’t gotten our freedom. That’s why I felt like it was the right time to release it, because a lot of people wanted to claim that everything is happening in a vacuum. I didn’t want to just share stories to prove that it is not; I felt that if I shared the song that we’ve been singing for so long it would help get that point across.
Sonically, there’s a mournful tone to it, though your use of synths makes it simultaneously feel very futuristic. In what ways does your cover speak beyond the current onslaught toward Palestine’s future more generally?
There’s this constant pulsing feeling in it that reminds me of something that is continuously moving, but remains stationary. I get the same feeling when I’m driving by the apartheid wall, which is this long structure that never ends. You hope that eventually the wall and everlasting oppression and pain ends at some point. Releasing “Mawtini” is an expression of this seemingly ceaseless yearning for a freedom I have no doubt we will see.
Your songs are also full of humor. I’m reminded by the skits at the beginning of “Antenne” or “Shillet Hamal.” How does comedy function in your work?
Humor and satire have always been tools that Palestinians use to make light of this horrible reality we’ve been forced to live in. Sabreen had a lot of songs that had satirical lyrics and dealt with their generation’s frustrations using humor. I’m taking all these serious subjects that have affected me and making light of them, whether it’s the pressures of getting married, toxic masculinity, or living under occupation. Resorting to humor can be a coping mechanism and a form of resistance to our brutal reality.
Just as striking as your songs are the visuals that accompany them. They’re extravagant, over the top, very queer, both in the production and the fashion you wear. How do you approach this facet of your artistry?
In my early videos, you can see that it was an upward journey in learning how to direct, how to have the proper visual language, the importance of fashion, dance, and also including talented Palestinian artists who don’t really get many opportunities to be unbridled. In my work, there is that freedom. Despite the occupation, we have these amazing talents who are thriving in their own way and who help people imagine what a free Palestine could look like. If Palestinians can do this under occupation, you can only imagine what they can do after Palestine is free.
As the onslaught in Gaza is in its third month, there are cultural workers who have been organizing themselves, demanding a ceasefire and launching boycotts. What do you see as the role of the cultural worker in the West?
There’s a huge responsibility. In any other situation, it would take artists a second to post a story demanding a ceasefire or to make a clear stand for human rights. But in Palestine’s situation, because the propaganda machine has been working for decades to dehumanize us, many artists hesitate. And I understand that many artists “just want to make their art.” I am like that, too. But unfortunately, we’re in a position where that’s not possible. By not saying anything and closing your eyes and moving on, you’re also making a statement. For the last 75 days, every Instagram account from Gaza is saying, “We don’t want donations. We want you to be the voice of Gaza. Don’t stop talking about Gaza. Don’t stop taking action.” Gaza is telling the world that it’s in our hands to make a change. We must use our platforms as artists to stop the genocide and to call for a ceasefire, to then continue calling for an end to the occupation, and an end to the oppression of Palestinians. A ceasefire is not the end, it’s just the beginning.
You’re a Palestinian artist based in Palestine. You used to sing in English; now you mostly sing in Arabic. How do you balance the expectation of making political art with the natural fluidity of being an artist?
I want people to listen to me for my art, not only because of where I come from, or what I represent. I believe music can simultaneously be a form of self-expression and an act of resistance but I also understand Palestinian artists who just want to make love songs, for example. At the same time, when you’re under occupation, just singing a love song is a political act.
I think Palestinian artists should be given the freedom to intentionally center their music around politics or not. Still, music has been an important instrument of resilience and healing. We’ve seen videos come out of Gaza of Palestinians sitting in the rubble singing together, using music to heal the unhealable and to maybe even drown out the sounds of the Israeli drones.
I agree. The occupation is so all-encompassing to the point where singing about love as a Palestinian is also about the occupation itself because it punctuates all Palestinian life. We hear a lot about the violence against Palestinians in Gaza and in the West Bank. We hear less about what it’s like in ’48. Can you share a little bit about Jerusalem and what’s changed in the city since October 7?
You’re right to say that every place in Palestine has a unique identity, struggle, and experience under occupation. For the past three months, all Palestinians worldwide have felt an attack on our identity. After October 7, people especially in Palestine were intimidated into not posting online, or showing any sympathy, let alone support for people in Gaza. Soldiers were checking people’s phones at checkpoints. In the West Bank and Jerusalem, settlers have taken advantage of this moment and are attacking Palestinian homes, destroying their cars, and throwing Molotov cocktails in their front yards at night. Zionists live in this strange fantasy land where they think they can scare us into hiding our identities. They think that just because we live in Jerusalem, under occupation, that we identify as Israelis. It’s a ridiculous delusion that continues to make the situation worse — this denial of our existence.
You mentioned the denial of identity, and I think that becomes so clear when we talk about queer Palestinians. We are invisibilized in the sense that people ignore that we exist in Gaza, but we’re also very visible, because the war in Gaza is sometimes framed as a war against homophobia, which relies on an orientalist conception of the Arab world. Queer people who support Palestinian liberation are often accused of supporting their own oppression. How does your work push against this narrative, and what is the story about queer Palestinians you’d tell in its place?
What I try to show through my music is that Palestinians are like any other humans. They have the same struggles as anyone else. But on top of that, they’re under occupation. So we can never talk about anything that has to do with Palestine while removing it from this context.
There are queer people everywhere, and there is homophobia everywhere. I don’t get why we’re trying to pretend that homophobia only exists in Palestine. Queer people are being killed in Gaza as we speak. The bombs do not have a special sensor that detects whether these people are gay or not. There is no pink ID that we show to the soldiers to show them that we are gay. There’s no pink door in the apartheid wall that allows for queer Palestinians to escape.
As Palestinians, we are all suffering from the same occupation. We believe that our fight for freedom is from all kinds of oppression, whether it is colonialism, Zionism, patriarchy, and so on. We won’t accept selective freedom. We are hungry for absolute freedom.
Despite all this horrible shit that is happening right now, the queer community worldwide is seeing through Israel’s pinkwashing smokescreen. Being queer doesn’t make you a god. It doesn’t make you immune to being an occupier. It doesn’t make you an exception. So it’s important to not let the queer identity be hijacked in order to justify atrocities against Palestinian people, queer and non-queer alike.
Mic drop.
I’ve had a lot of practice.
What does a free Palestine look like to you?
Right now, I just want my people to not be killed and be blamed for it. After that, I want my people to be treated like other humans, and to have the right to movement, self-determination, and freedom. Really, we’re not asking for a lot. I have no doubt that a free Palestine is something that will help free the entire world.
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