On the importance of being uncompromising

When did you know that you wanted to be an artist?

I didn’t. It was never something that crossed my mind. So many people were like, “Oh, you should become an artist. You should be a singer, you should write songs.” Not because I was writing, but just because they were like, “You should just do that.”

I’m the type of person that thinks just because you’re good at something, it doesn’t mean you have to pursue it. I stood by that. You could be good at something and not enjoy it. The process of becoming an artist and the dedication it required in order to be one didn’t really appeal to me. I didn’t love it that much, but then it happened.

But was there a moment where you kind of knew you had a voice?

I think it was “What if I Took It off for You?” because that was the first song I wrote. I think it wasn’t me writing it. I hated it, I would say, until it came out. Every woman of every race, every religion was like, “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” and they all related to it in an entirely different way. I didn’t even tell them what it was about. I realized that that was just the first thing that came to mind to write about. I was like, “If this many people are relating and saying that this is something that needed to be done, I can’t imagine the types of songs I could write if I really tapped into the emotions and the things that I was feeling.”

Honestly, I’m an activist at heart and I love doing things for the sake of other people. I think the honest truth is I started making music for other people. I personally love the song three years after I wrote it, once it finally came out, because then people that look like me were really like, “Oh, you ate with that one.” I knew I was good at poetry and I knew I could do it deep down, so I just started writing songs. I’ m kind of mad I didn’t start sooner, but I think everything happens for a reason.

Do you recall what inspired you to write that song?

At that point, I think I had been wearing the hijab for about 13 years? It was just a recurring thing that I kept asking myself. There were so many moments in my life where I really wanted to do something, and my hijab was what was preventing me from doing it. It wasn’t like my parents or the actual hijab. It was just a question in the back of my mind that I kept asking myself.

It happens in music. It happened after October when I was dropped by my label and everything, and I saw a lot of other Palestinian artists that weren’t necessarily dropped or were still able to get investors or get things. Really, the make it or break it point between me and many other Palestinian artists is I am the only hijabi Palestinian (in the music industry). If I took it off, I do think life would be so much easier to navigate. Of course, there’s anti-Arab and anti-Palestinian (people), but then there’s also Islamophobia and anti-hijab, which is another thing. There’s layers to it. It’s a question that reoccurs.

Being somebody who is visibly Muslim, would you consider that to be something that you find could be an obstacle sometimes?

I don’t think it’s as much of an obstacle because I’ve been wearing it for 20 years now, and I’m very aware, and I’m comfortable and confident. I think what’s harder is when there’s a moment in time where something isn’t fair or I’m being treated differently and people say that it’s in my head or that I’m overthinking it. I think that’s what makes it harder.

Would you consider that to be your biggest obstacle in the music industry?

Yes. When I would do press after “What if I Took It off for You?,” and my first EP, everyone was saying, “Muslim hijabi artist, Nemahsis.” I always said, “No, that’s obvious, you can see I’m Muslim. How about we put something like Palestinian?” Chass, my manager was always so confused why I put Palestinian first. This is a conversation we had at the end of 2021 where I was like, “Let’s normalize Palestinian in the headline.”

To be a Muslim hijabi 10-20 years ago was as taboo and as hush-hush as vocalizing that you’re Palestinian in the title now. I do think hijab has been one of my biggest setbacks. To be Palestinian in the now versus before 2021 is so hard. Add hijab to that and it’s a nightmare. Genuinely, I wouldn’t wish this upon my biggest nemesis.

I have to do things 10 times harder as a hijabi to get the attention of someone that’s giving 10 percent and I’m giving 100 percent. I have to work even harder than I did before 2023. It’s tiring. I thought resubmitting applications, getting shadow-banned or suppressed was hard. Every day I’m doing something different like trying to get my website back up because it’s been targeted. Being a hijabi, especially a hijabi-Palestinian, has been the biggest setback of every job I’ve ever had, but especially this one in the public light.

Right now, what do you think is holding you together and guiding you?

I think it’s that in turn, I am the only hijabi Palestinian-Muslim artist, especially in pop music. I think if I leave, it will set an example that it worked. So now I’m kind of stuck in it. I thought I would just spend the next three months with my head up, and then have everything kind of flop, and I fizzle out because they forced me out. But I’m still standing strong. I can still move tickets. I can still sort of break even with music. I can’t be the one to let go.

Going back to your previous label situation, they dropped you given your identity. The album was done right?

Yeah, I was signing to kind of get it all polished and finished.

At what point did you realize, “It’s going to be a difficult decision, but I have to go forth and release this independently”?

I think it was when I was in Palestine. When I went back to Palestine for Ramadan, at the end of March/beginning of April. I didn’t listen to any music because I was really on a full cleanse where I was just there with my family. I wasn’t really on my phone. I wasn’t uploading on social media the first 20 days. I wanted to see if I missed music. There were maybe three days left of Ramadan or four days, and I finally was like, “I feel ready to listen to music again. I want to see if my album still sounds good.” I sat down and listened to my album start to finish, and the fourth song in, I texted my manager and I was like, “Yeah, let’s release this. If this is the last thing we do, I’m really proud of this.”

He was like, “Okay, let’s go, I’ll meet you in LA. We’ll find an indie label that will sign us and help fund it.” Then I shot “Stick of Gum.” Two days after that I went to LA, went to meet with that label that told me to fly there, and they got cold feet. I think me being in Palestine just restarted everything in October. When the label was like, “Yeah, it’s not a good idea.” I picked a date.

Do you think it’s important to continue creating despite being in distress or feeling like you’re not being heard out fairly?

I actually can’t create when I’m in distress. I get really sad and overwhelmed. It doesn’t mean I don’t have anything to write about.

The average person waits to be in a moment like this to write a gut-wrenching song. I can’t afford that because I’m very, very emotional and a little bit petty. So it’s better that I kind of get through the storm and then reflect on what I went through.

But do you see importance in looking back and using that as a way to move forward?

100 percent. I move a lot on emotion but I’m a logical person. I try to stay away from everyone, stay off social media when I’m emotional. The only time I really acted on emotion was when I made the cover of [“Team” by Lorde.] I had just gotten dropped. I remember being like, “Okay, F them. If they’re going to drop me because I’m Palestinian, I might as well educate.” It really gave me ammunition to be like, “Let me use this voice to clear the narrative of Palestinians, especially in Gaza.” I knew it was going to go viral because it was exactly what the world needed.

I was glad I acted on emotion, because it was reaching hundreds of millions of people. And until this day, I still get DMs of people saying that it’s what changed their mind. It’s what made them look into the truth.

Have you learned anything about yourself during this process?

My gut has never let me down. Without a label, I had to find friends and people that I could— I have trust issues, of course, as a hijabi. We know people are all talk and then they never follow through. I think after October, a lot of people leaned in to help, a lot of allies that I now call friends, and coworkers, and acquaintances that reached out to offer services and help for free. Before October, I was someone that took a lot of pride in doing all the work myself, and that’s why I wanted a label, so that they could just give me the money and I could execute everything.

I think when people are volunteering their time, there’s a level of trust where you actually let them even have creative control. I don’t think I would’ve ever trusted other people’s creative input if I was with a label, because I don’t trust labels. I don’t think labels have the resources to help artists, especially artists like me. They just have the money. And I’m grateful that that did happen because I learned how to trust other creatives again.

I’m really thankful for the people that have come in since. I lost a lot and I gained way more, and the quality is even better with the people that have come in.

Has your approach to your craft also changed over time?

I think I sit more with things. I think before, I’d be like, “Oh, this song’s really good. I’m going to make a music video and then put it out there and just hope for the best.” Now, I’ll have a really good song and I need to make sure that I love it so much that I’m going to make a music video. I’m going to make TikToks. I should be proud enough to plug it in to show someone.

Speaking of music videos, your gorgeous video for “Stick of Gum” was shot in your hometown of Jericho. It also features your friends and family. How important it was to pay tribute to your roots and have that footage?

I’m going to be honest, it was sticking one up to everyone, and I was so detached from the Western world and the industry that I’m in when I was there, that I was like, “Nothing matters. I got these guys [family] behind me!” I was like, “What type of video could we do that they would hate?” It’s Palestinians liberated, smiling, having a good time with each other, having each other’s company with almost nothing.

It really just was us capturing a document of what living there was actually like, is actually like. Even if the video doesn’t work out, I got really good footage for my kids to look back on and I’ll send some footage to my grandma. Documenting moments is very normal in Palestine. I really just took it from them. Then, Aram (Sabbah) made the music video.

The video did garner a great response online with your community and supporters. What can you tell us about building a genuine community online in this era of algorithmic art?

I tried so hard to connect with my audience and people through TikTok and stuff. I really wanted a community. There were moments I was too Muslim for the industry and I was too liberal for the Muslim community. I was really sitting on the fence of awkwardness and I couldn’t really win the hearts of either. The moment I thought my career was over and I stopped performing and pumping out the content that I thought would work, was the first time the world started to fall in love and understand me. I genuinely thought my career was over. I still think—fuck it, it doesn’t matter. I don’t think about what I post anymore.

I’ve found a pocket of community that feels similarly to me in the West that is Muslim, that is proud, that is about liberation, and not just Palestinians I’m talking about, I touched the authentic hearts in every community that is there. I don’t think I was able to do that until I was honest with my presentation online and with what I was showcasing online. That was when I said, “Fuck everything I have. Fuck a multimillion-dollar deal, free Palestine!” Then I doubled down and I kept going.

All the people that I support till now, there’s a story. There was a moment I found them that made me love them. There was some moment in their timeline where I found some fact about them or something that they went through. Suddenly their music made so much sense to me. It was right there and I was looking outside the box. It’s just authenticity. Going against the grain. That’s what’s authentic, when it scares you, when you think it’s the wrong move. It’s when you’re kind of just making content, posting it, and it almost cringes you out. I think that’s when it’s good.

What would you like people to take away from your art?

I feel like everything is so cliché, especially in the world of toxic positivity and therapy talk and stuff like that. What should they take away from my music? I think that the most important people were once underdogs. I think when we look at the names that we know way beyond their deaths, they were underdogs and hated at one point.