Introduction

The history of female Palestinian rappers in Israel dates to the late 1990s when Palestinian hip-hop as a genre of protest music first appeared. It spread quickly and circulated both locally and globally as popular music, not only among Palestinian youth in Israel/Palestine and the Diaspora, but also among Arab and Muslim youth in the Middle East and in immigrant communities in Europe and the Americas.

This entry is among the first scholarly attempts to document, investigate, and review female Palestinian rappers in Israel who are producing hip hop as protest and celebration. As such, it draws on close analysis of lyrics and performances, as well as personal interviews with the pioneering MCs Sabreena Da Witch, Arapyat and Dmar to examine how these artists have contributed to creating a space for women in Palestinian and Arab hip-hop. It specifically analyzes their role in establishing feminist hip-hop as a musical genre that expresses a mosaic of themes and beats that reflect, challenge, negotiate and redefine the various intersections that characterize the experience of Palestinian women in Israel.

Since the early 2000s, these artists have been creating, writing and rapping to protest against several sources of oppression, including patriarchy, racism, Zionism, Israeli state discriminatory policies, social and cultural taboos, sexism, and the objectification of women in media and commercial music. They have also been writing and rapping to celebrate the power of young women, creativity, love, human rights, indigeneity, the homeland, and Palestinian national identity.

Beginnings/breakin’ it!

When ‘Abeer Alzinaty appeared in Palestinian rap group DAM’s first video clip, “Nwaladit Hon” (Born Here) in 2004, she was only 20. In the clip, she is wearing dark sunglasses, jeans and a portrait-style top that reveals her bra straps. Her brown highlighted curls swing freely behind her neck as she moves around confidently in a defiant pose next to the three male MCs of DAM, Tamer Nafar, Suhell Nafar and Mahmoud Jreri, and the angry crowd of young Palestinians. They are marching in their mixed Arab-Jewish hometown Lydd in protest against the conditions in their ghettoized Arab neighborhoods in particular, and the gloomy reality of marginalization, segregation and oppression of Palestinians in Israel in general. ‘Abeer appears in the front line of the protest and the camera zooms into her face as she repeats the following chorus four times, all solo:

Our neighborhood is embarrassed not dressed in silk (if the fear remains within us) A bride without a veil waiting for her turn to beautify (ethnic cleansing is knocking at our doors) Time has passed her by and forgotten her (that’s why) Her hope has become a prisoner to the separation wall Every bird will break free from its cage take off and fly (I was born here and here I will stay) (DAM 2004).

As this clip marked the birth of Palestinian hip-hop, it also threatened to put an end to ‘Abeer’s life. Shortly after launching the video clip on Israeli television, YouTube, and other online media sites, DAM gained rapid popularity and the group was invited to perform at local and international hip-hop events and festivals. However, ‘Abeer was not there to be part of this success. With heavy social pressure from male members of her extended family, including actual death threats against her life and members of DAM, ‘Abeer was required by her immediate family to quit hip-hop altogether. However, the video clip continued to circulate with her voice and image, and DAM continued to perform the song in their shows using her voice recording in the playback although she was not physically present on stage.

Despite her absence from the performances, ‘Abeer continued to be involved behind the scenes with DAM and the boom in Palestinian hip-hop making. From 2004 to 2007 she was interviewed for Jackie Salloum’s highly acclaimed documentary about Palestinian hip-hip, Slingshot Hip-Hop. In 2007, ‘Abeer immigrated to the United States to join her American husband, Benjamin Baker-Lee. Together they started a production company, Sabreena Now, in Baltimore, Maryland, and ‘Abeer adopted the artist name of Sabreena Da Witch. When Slingshot Hip-Hop finally came out in the United States in 2008, she joined the director and other Palestinian rappers featured in the documentary in a film tour around the country in which she talked and performed her own songs in post-screening events and shows held in colleges and Arab-American communities. Simultaneously, she released a mix tape echoing her name Sabreena Da Witch: ‘Abeer. The tape featured 14 tracks, including her own R&B songs, duets with Palestinian and American rappers, such as We7, Adi Krayem, Anan Kseem and Behrang Miri, as well as “Born Here.” In 2010, Sabreena Da Witch released her first album, A Woman Under the Influence.

Figure. Sabreena Da Witch (Photo from the artist’s official website. Image courtesy and copyright of Sabreena Da Witch) View full image in a new tab

Palestinian hip-hop in Israel first emerged in marginalized Arab neighborhoods, such as in the mixed Arab and Jewish town of Lydd, in the early 2000s. But it soon became a widespread popular genre among Palestinian youth in small villages in the Triangle Area, such as Baqa al-Gharbiyya, Jatt and Qalansawa, and bigger towns in the Shagur and Galilee, including Acre, Nazareth and Shafa ‘Amir. This geographic and demographic diversity not only challenged the rural/urban divide that exists in local Palestinian cultural production, but also redefined the notion of “ghetto” in hip-hop music. The lyrics of the male trio of Abnaa al-Ghadab (Anger Boys) from the village of Qalansawa used the same language of protest against the lack of infrastructure, inequality, racism, land rights, and living in confined spaces, as the lyrics of MWR, another male group from the mixed Arab and Jewish city of Acre. For these artists, hip-hop was not ghetto music from urban slums as has been historically the case in the United States and Europe. Rather, it was a mode of immediate and oral expression against the living conditions that Palestinians had to endure in all Palestinian villages, towns and neighborhoods in mixed Arab and Jewish cities. The ghetto was a Palestinian space (Eqeiq 2010).

In 2001, Safaa Hathout was only 15 when she fell in love with the lyrics and music of DAM and the local hip-hop group in her city of Acre, MWR. She was also a good friend of members of MWR, Mahmoud, Waseem, Richi and Charlie. She attended all their shows and went to their local studio during recordings where she was invited to join the crew. Her friend and neighbor, Nahwa Abed El Al, two years her senior, liked DAM and MWR too. So when Safaa’s parents disapproved of her aspirations to record a song with MWR, Nahwa wrote a song and called Safaa and suggested that they perform it together. The song was “Al-bint al-‘Arabiyya (The Arab Girl). The lyrics described the reality of an Arab girl struggling to express herself while fighting to bring about awareness of gender equality. Safaa liked the song and together they went to MWR’s studio to record it, a duet that would become the first Palestinian female group, Arapyat, which is a play on the Arabic word ‘Arabiyyāt, meaning Arab females, and rap. Ten years later, Safaa is a full-time rapper and Nahwa is studying to become a sports teacher at the Wingate Institute in Netanya. Arapyat continues to perform locally and internationally and is presently working on their first album release.

Figure. Arapyat (Nahwa to the Left) performing at an Eid Concert in Acre, 7 November 2011. Photo from Safaa Hathout’s Facebook page. Image courtesy of Safaa Hathout. View full image in a new tab

Mai Zarqawi is a 16-year-old girl from the village of Majd El Krum in the Shagur. Amani Tattur is a 17-year-old girl from the village of Al-Reine near Nazareth. On a cold morning in late 2007, Mai and Amani met in the schoolyard of the Albian College where they attended high school. Both arrived late that morning and the headmaster required that they not enter the first session of classes. Sharing the same punishment and bench, they began to talk about their lives, hobbies, hair products that work best with their curls, and music. In addition to discovering their common hatred of school, they discovered that they both loved Palestinian hip-hop. They talked about their deep appreciation for the music of DAM, MWR, Arapyat, and the Nazareth-based group We7 – Awlad Al-Hara (Boys of the Hood). Their short exchange turned into a close friendship and shortly after meeting they jointly wrote a rap song entitled “Al-Madrasa” (The School). In summer 2008, Mai and Amani appeared on the school’s stage in an art event and together as members of Dmar (Destruction) they performed the song for the first time. Although they were nervous and confused the order of the lyrics, they were amused and reassured by the sight of their mothers in the audience cheering enthusiastically and moving to the rhythm of the beat box. Since that first show, Dmar has recorded two more songs with the Underground Studio in Nazareth, created a website on MySpace, and performed in various local hip-hop shows in Israel and the Occupied Palestinian cities of Ramallah, Bethlehem and Jenin. They even traveled to Jordan by themselves to perform and attend workshops for rappers from the Arab world.

Figure. Dmar (Mai to the left) performing in Amman, 6 August 2010. Photo from Mai Zarqawi’s Facebook page. Image courtesy of Mai Zarqawi. View full image in a new tab

Scratching that honor beat

In 2007, ‘Abeer Alzinaty was featured in Buthina Canaan Khoury’s documentary Maria’s Grotto, which explores femicide, or so-called “honor killing,” in Palestinian society. The film focuses on the stories of four victims, both Muslim and Christian. One is wrongly accused and murdered; the second is a pregnant Muslim woman who dies after being forced by her brothers to swallow poison because she was accused of having an affair with her Christian boss. The third survives repeated stabbings by her brother; the fourth is ‘Abeer Alzinaty.

The segment about ‘Abeer begins with her younger sister standing in the street where she recounts to the filmmaker the details of an “honor killing” crime that she had witnessed. In the next scene, ‘Abeer is at home with her mother and sister. ‘Abeer speaks about the death threats that ultimately forced her off the stage. In defense of the family’s decision to prevent her from doing hip-hop music, ‘Abeer’s mother argues that hip-hop is not appropriate for Arab society and describes it as vulgar street music. She adds, “If a man was to choose to sing this type of music, then he is not likely to be threatened.” Rejecting her mother’s claims, ‘Abeer responds:

I’m not ashamed of the label that hip-hop music is given as street music. Lydd is practically a ghetto. We are all occupied by the Israelis who have surrounded us to practically live in a street called Lydd. I am not embarrassed when I am told that I sing street music. I am much better than today’s pop stars, such as Nancy Ajram and Haifa, because I am willing to grow up in the street and protect and secure it to allow children to grow in a place where they can live and play. I prefer being a rapper than having young girls or my daughter in the future undress to sell their music like these pop stars. I do not want my daughter to sing about love while being denied the right to experience it.

This debate between ‘Abeer and her mother captures one of the major challenges that Palestinian women rappers encountered when they first entered the hip-hop scene. Among the list of unsupportive responses they heard the following: “Hip-hop is foreign to Arab culture,” “Hip-hop is boys’ music,” “Hip-hop is for thugs,” and “Hip-hop is shameful for girls and their families.” It is important to note that hip-hop, in general, has always suffered from many labels and stigmas. African American hip-hop in the United States, which goes back to the 1970s, has long been associated with drugs, violence, sexism and the destruction of American values. It was also criticized for representing and promoting a “culture of dysfunction”; poor urban black people were accused of creating and perpetuating “a ‘culture’ of violence (which includes crime and prison culture), sexual deviance/excess, and illiteracy” (Rose 2008, 62).

A question arises here of how Palestinian female MCs dealt with the labels that their community attached to hip-hop. More specifically, how did they continue to produce hip-hop despite the multiple barriers of hip-hop as “street music,” “boys’ music,” and “dangerous music”? The answer is: they created hip-hop that remixed advocacy for Palestine with a feminist agenda.

For Sabreena Da Witch, the liberation of Palestine cannot be realized without the liberation of Palestinian women from patriarchy and sexism. The Witch’s Intifada, which she wrote and performed together with Suhell Nafar from DAM in 2006, illustrates her revolt against male domination, including that of Palestinian men. In this manifesto she describes the experience of a female Palestinian MC struggling to assert her position in the world; the speaker addresses a Palestinian man, herself and an anonymous victim of a so-called “honor killing.” The tones in the song shift from resistance and defiance to agency, and finally solidarity. In the first section, the speaker challenges male superiority and domination. She asserts that women are equal not only in life, but also in hip-hop:

From now on get used to seeing girls who can do what you do Not girls who just sing, but women who give singing its original dignity back. I’m Sabreena Da Witch, and these are my true colors. I don’t want your house I don’t need you to come to the rescue or to marry me. I want to hear and make provocative Arab hip-hop that will make you stop laughing or feeling shame when you hear my name. I can do what you do but better, and I’m never weak in front of a man or tradition (Sabreen da Witch 2008).

In the chorus, the speaker celebrates resilience and steadfastness not only against the Zionist occupation of her homeland, but also against her own people who exercise a similar form of oppression by silencing Palestinian women:

I was born in Lydd and I stayed in Lydd Even when the people of Lydd destroyed my home I was born in Lydd and I stayed in Lydd Even when the people of Lydd silenced my voice (Sabreen da Witch 2008).

The background music softens and the song ends with a monologue in which the speaker addresses a woman who was killed in Lydd:

I wish it was me instead of her But I also wish that this never happened If she stood up for herself with principle And was killed in the name of freedom Command, threat, and beat (addressing a man) It is all the same matter For that woman killed yesterday, the one before that, and the one before that I am sorry that you were killed And we could not continue the struggle together It is going to take me time to achieve your dreams I’m sorry for what I didn’t do I didn’t stop them from saying bad things about you

I wish I could bring you back or be with you I wish I could get rid of the pain and the fear I wish I could be one with you (Sabreen da Witch 2008).

In her most recent album, A Women Under the Influence (2010), Sabreena Da Witch expresses a more radical stance against patriarchy and the ways in which it is employed to serve masculine notions of Palestinian nationalism. In the song “Sajel” (For The Record), she accuses Palestinian men of having double standards concerning gender roles and sexuality that are fundamentally oppressive to Palestinian women. Comparing a Palestinian man to a Zionist is one of the striking metaphors that demonstrates the parallels which the speaker draws between patriarchy, oppression, and colonialism:

This body that you forbid me from showing is the same body that without shame you rape you force it if you wish to wrap itself around itself and if you wish you also strip it of everything do you think I’m dumb or are you fooling yourself ? coming to fix me when you’re corrupted from your toe to the tip of your head you remember your dogmas/values when I wish to take a step ahead throwing honor at me while you’re the nastiest/lowest man alive a Zionist only dressed with ‘agal [ʻiqāl]and kūfiyya can’t control anything in your life but her head are you trying to surround me?! in the name of the cause?! Man if you go ask her, Palestine will say she disowns you No darling, we were not made for the kitchen and the babies and we were not made to raise men at all ages so cut your tail, pick yourself up and forge your own way women no longer have free time to serve you (Sabreen Da Witch 2010).

In her introduction to Palestinian Feminist Writings: Between Oppression and Resistance (2007), Nadera Shalhoub-Kevorkian notes that the reality of Palestinian women in Israel entails several forms of oppression that operate in a hierarchal order. First, being part of an oppressed indigenous minority who lives in its homeland, “a Palestinian woman in Israel suffers the consequences of national oppression. She is also part of a nation that still suffers oppression in the Jewish state. Moreover, she suffers from male-led patriarchal and social oppressions” (25). Nevertheless, Shalhoub-Kevorkian commends Palestinian women for developing creative strategies to dismantle both power relations and different systems of oppression despite the complexities, intersections and the hierarchy of patriarchal oppressions involved. Sabreen Da Witch’s articulation of a feminist consciousness in her music demonstrates this intersection between resistance to national and patriarchal oppressions. Furthermore, the MC’s embrace of hip-hop as an integral part of the feminist struggle emphasizes the potential of rap, spoken word, music and women’s cultural production in general as a rich site and significant space for creativity, agency and liberation.

Empowering women, decolonizing minds

In a recent Skype interview (9 November 2011), Nahwa Abed El Al from Arapyat emphasized that making Palestinian hip-hop empowered her as a woman. She said, Our first song “Al-bint al-‘Arabiyya” (The Arab Girl) was a message to other young Arab and Palestinian women. We called on them to fight for their rights and freedom, to attend school, to work, to be independent and develop their own lives. But I didn’t know then that I was addressing myself as well. So, not so long time ago when my fiancé issued an ultimatum and asked me to choose between him and hip-hop, I chose hip-hop. Yes, I loved him very much and we were supposed to be married in four months, but I was not ready to give up on hip-hop or my right to make my own choices. Hip-hop made me a stronger woman.

Nahwa’s team partner, Safaa Hathout, also comments on how her evolution over the last decade as an MC and writer has led to a double process of empowering herself and empowering other Arab women. During an interview conducted at her home in Acre (24 August 2010), Hathout recounted that one of her struggles involved dealing with the gossip in her community. She said,

Because I am out there performing and traveling for shows all over the country and overseas, I heard a lot of gossip, backbiting and accusations from people in my community, which put my reputation in danger. But I didn’t stop doing what I do, because a woman should not care about what they say about her. Gossip is there to hold women back. So I wrote a song called “Paka, Paka,” which means “blah, blah,” to challenge those who want to draw limits for women.

On Arapyat’s website, Safaa’s solo recording of “Paka, Paka” is listed as one of the top-rated songs. Safaa’s performance of the song is also featured in a Javier Corcuera and Fermín Muguruza’s 2009 documentary about Palestinian music, Checkpoint Rock: Songs from Palestine. With fast upbeat music and the walls of the Old City and the sea of Acre in the background, Safaa raps:

Once upon a time, They thought that they would stop me, Ha, ha! Know that I don’t need their mission Let them criticize and criticize They are only smart at talking The reality that we have is: To stop is to applaud without sound Those who criticize are like shattered glass But, don’t you think that you found someone Who is going to get burned, sink or care for nonsense and prejudice Listen to the sound of my violin! It says: Paka, Paka! (Corcuera 2009)

Safaa sees her music as related to the larger context and reality of Palestinian women:

My lyrics are not born in a vacuum. I don’t write only when I am upset and I don’t sing just to vent about what happens in my personal daily life. My goal is to change. I deeply care about the struggle of Palestinian women everywhere. Personally I didn’t have to deal with issues of “honor killing,” and this phenomenon doesn’t exist in Acre, but it can be found in other small Palestinian villages or Arab neighborhoods in mixed Arab and Jewish cities, such as Lydd. This phenomenon is very disturbing and I try to raise awareness to it to show that it is a custom of ignorance just like female infanticide in pre-Islamic Arabia. I just finished writing a song titled “Lkol Has, (Everyone Felt). It is a rewrite of the song “Al-Huriyya Untha,” (Freedom is a Women) which I sang in duet with Tamer Nafar from DAM in 2006. I changed the chorus of the song and instead of repeating the line ‘everyone felt, but no one uttered a sound,’ I added a few lines that express my rejection of the idea that we should only feel for the injustice against women. I think that we should do something about it and speak up and act to fight violence against women.

The song is scheduled to appear in Arapyat’s first album in the near future. The new chorus reads:

Everyone felt it, but no one uttered a sound No! We don’t want just to feel, We want to express our voice We’re fed up with being blamed We’re fed up with the daily blame We’re fed up with the angst So let us express this voice (2011, lyrics courtesy of the artist)

While Arapyat celebrates women’s power, Dmar emphasizes that rap is music of protest and rebellion. Their first release, “Al-Madrasa” (The School), is a protest against school as an institution that imprisons the bodies and minds of teenagers. In a Skype interview (9 November 2011), the duo Dmar proudly declared that their first performance of the song in 2008 was actually in their own school. Mai commented: “Imagine this! We insulted school in our own school. Rap allows you to impose yourself in such away. After I left the stage, I really didn’t care what people said, because I already spoke my mind. The audience can agree or disagree, but I said what I wanted to say and that is what matters.” Dmar considers this song an example of their efforts to raise the awareness of their peers for their political rights:

[Mai] Ayyo my name is Mai (sounds like the word water in Arabic) I’m from Dmar Don’t be afraid! I’m here to put down your fires Cause I feel with students who have had enough And are only in schools because it is an obligation

[Amani] My name is Amani (means wishes in Arabic) and I have a wish in every son Maybe if school was more fun, we’ll study more So to whom it may concern, I’m shouting out loud: Wait till Amani and Mai graduate! (Dmar, “Al-Madrasa”)

Dmar’s political agenda becomes more explicit in their 2011 single “Al-Jīl al-Thālith” (The Third Generation). The inspiration for this song was fueled by their growing frustration with the history and literature curriculum in their school. Both Mai and Amani argue that their generation, which is the third generation of Palestinian survivors of the Nakba, is at risk of losing their national and cultural heritage and identity because of the Israeli Ministry of Education and its Zionist agenda. They complain, “They teach us to memorize the verse of the Zionist poet Nachman Bialik rather than teaching us Palestinian poetry and literature by Mahmoud Darwish and Ghassan Kanafani.” They also emphasize that Dmar took on itself the mission to educate Palestinian teenagers about their history and rights using political hip-hop. Amani adds,

What is happening is dangerous. The state wants young Palestinians to remain ignorant about the Nakba and its history. They just want young teens to join the civil service and volunteer without fighting for equal rights. The state wants to keep us second-class citizens forever.

Mai’s position here is part of a larger public campaign organized since 2010 by youth organizations as well as civil and human rights activists. The aim of this campaign, entitled Ana mosh khadem, (I am not serving), is to counter the Israeli government call to recruit Palestinian teenagers to the civil service as an alternative to military service. In addition, Mai is addressing the longstanding Israeli policy of suppressing Palestinian history in the Israeli school curriculum; she also refers to Israel’s new Nakba Law (passed in March 2011) to punish public institutions for any reference to the Israeli occupation of Palestine in 1948 as a catastrophe or nakba. Dmar’s lyrics advocate political consciousness in resistance to this censorship:

[Verse 2 – Mai] I came to talk about what’s inside me, found out that rap is me Helped to stand up for me and my people’s rights In this country, my people really lack political consciousness You can find a proof for that in the schoolbooks

Instead of Tawfeeq Zayyad [a Palestinian poet] we are studying Nakhman Bialik [a Zionist poet] Enough of that, we need a base solution – political consciousness Because the problem is getting worse The nation that is born under the occupation doesn’t know that

This is the rulers’ wish – to assassinate minds Unbelievable how they buy our freedom in money and we join their military They rob our whole culture, hummus and ful [Palestinian foods] Don’t stop here; I still got stuff to say [….] [Chorus Dmar and Adi from We7] Don’t think that our third generation will come out Israeli, brother Time doesn’t make us forget, it’s actually loading more history events, Dmar Silence and staying still, we don’t want that Shutting up and keeping it down, we don’t want that Prisons and borders, we don’t want that We don’t want that (X2) (Dmar, “Al-jīl al-thālith”)

The lyrics and performances of both Arapyat and Dmar identify the liberatory potential of hip-hop through the voices of strong women who are politically aware of their history and rights. They resist all forms of subjection, whether they stem from tradition, family, community, colonial ideologies, or the state. They operate in models of sisterhood, activism and constant negotiation of belonging and resistance.

When asked about their performance styles, both Arapyat and Dmar said that they don’t have a particular style. While they usually wrap themselves with the Palestinian kūfiyya to affirm their national heritage and celebrate their culture, sometimes they appear on stage wearing shorts or form fitting clothes that flatter their bodies. For Nahwa, the outfit for her performance depends on the location. She says, “If we perform in a place where people are more traditional and conservative, I wear long pants and loose clothes. I try to be respectful of my audience” (Skype interview, 9 November 2011). For Dmar, on the other hand, the outfit of the rapper is in itself a performative act of resistance to strict gender identities. Both Mai and Amani argue:

Sometimes we look for clothes in the boys’ section of the store, or we get a larger size to perform the classical baggy look of a rapper. Some people told us that we look like boys, but we don’t care. Who said that women should look petite, nice and docile? This is a stereotypical image of girls. We wear what is comfortable for us whether it is baggy or tight.”

This image of Palestinian women rappers contributes to their particularity as they introduce a different model for women in hip-hop. This model does not mirror the hegemonic representation of women in American hip-hop, which is often perceived as the ultimate source of global hip-hop. As Cheryl L. Keyes explains, the tradition of black female rappers in the United States witnessed the emergence of four distinct categories of women rappers: “Queen Mother,” “Fly Girl,” “Sista with Attitude,” and “Lesbian.” These categories are not mutually exclusive and black female rappers can shift between them or belong to more than one simultaneously. More importantly, each category reflects certain images, voices, and the lifestyles of African American women in urban society (Keyes 2004).

Neither Arapyat nor Dmar quite fit these categories, although both expressed deep admiration for Lauryn Hill. It may be more accurate to situate both groups, as well as Sabreen Da Witch, within a new category of women that has emerged in global hip-hop and received the praise of feminist hip-hop scholars who have criticized for years the negative representation of women in music. This category refers to the global rise of young women rappers who form a “new breed of folkateers, funkateers, punkateers, rockers, and rappers who otherwise may not view themselves as feminists but nonetheless protest women’s subjugation with lyrics that depict anger, even rage, and that also insist that men respect the terms defined by women” (Hobson and Bartlow 2007, 3).

Figure. Arapyat (Safaa in kūfiyya dress) at Nazareth Hip-Hop Concert, 12 November 2011. Photo appears on Nahwa’s Facebook page. Image courtesy of Nahwa. View full image in a new tab

Figure.Sabreena DaWitch at 60 Years Since Nakba Festival in San Francisco, May 2008. Photo appears on Sabreena DaWitch Facebook page. Image courtesy of artist. View full image in a new tab

Figure. Dmar (Amani to the Left) performing at a show in the demolished village of Iqrith, 8 November 2011. Photo from Amani’s Facebook page. Image courtesy of Amani. View full image in a new tab

“Women Rappers? Arabs? And Muslim, too?!”

According to the duo Arapyat, the first and most frequent question that Israeli and foreign media tend to ask them in total disbelief is, “How come you are in the hip-hop world? Women? Rappers? Arabs? And Muslim, too?!” For Arapyat, the answer is usually, “Although it was hard in the beginning to accept us for all of the reasons above, Islam did not interfere with our music.” Safaa describes herself as a devout Muslim who prays five times a day, and she sees no contradiction between her religious devotion and hip-hop and performance. In contrast, Dmar feels that religion is a marginal component in how they identify themselves and so being Muslim or not is a trivial matter. Sabreena Da Witch, on the other hand, noted, “Since I was a child, I believed in God, but didn’t distinguish between Christianity or Islam. I still believe that all religions derive from the same source. This faith has been very instrumental to me recently, especially because of my Yoga classes and interest in Buddhism. Now, I see myself more as a Yogi-Rapper.”

When asked if she would ever quit hip-hop, Sabreena Da Witch responded, “I think that as long as the intention of the art is creative and non violent then I will practice it, as long as I can. Hip-hop in my experience is a very creative and peaceful art; there was never an intention to hate, break or hurt anyone. It mostly spoke about hurt that was already there, that is already here. I always used hip-hop to heal and survive from my experience as poetically as possible. I don’t think I can stop being an artist.”