In a world where music and art are often separated from politics, Palestinian singer-songwriter Bashar Murad is an artist who thrives at the intersections. Bold, innovative, and unapologetically authentic, Murad’s music is not only a reflection of his personal experiences as a Palestinian but also a form of resistance against societal and political oppression. By blending traditional Palestinian sounds with modern pop influences, the Jerusalem-born Murad has carved out a unique space in the global music scene, challenging norms and pushing boundaries along the way.
With songs exploring themes of identity, equality, and love amid the harsh realities of life under occupation, Murad offers both a powerful narrative of resilience and an invitation to reimagine the possibilities of freedom and self-expression in a complex world.
While proud of his success, Murad continues to grapple with both the plight of Palestine and the exploitation of his queer identity by Western critics. His upcoming album, led by the song “Wild West,” reflects on his journey into the West and the failure of the American dream. In this interview with Tidal, Murad discusses the daily struggles of crossing checkpoints, the dehumanization of Palestinians, and the importance of sharing Palestinian culture through music.
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KHALID ABDEL-HADI: Can you tell us a bit about your background and how you first got started in music?
BASHAR MURAD: I was born in Jerusalem into a musical family. My earliest memories are of being surrounded by music. In the 1980s, my dad started Sabreen صابرين, one of the most influential Palestinian bands, blending Eastern folk and traditional music with Western influences like jazz and rock to create a modern Palestinian sound.
I always knew I wanted to be a performer, and Sabreen was like a school to me. The band used poetry by Palestinian poets like Mahmoud Darwish, Fadwa Tuqan, and Samih al-Qasim, exposing me early on to powerful themes of resistance and Palestinian struggles.
KA: Growing up in a musical family, do you think that environment shaped your passion for music?
BM: I grew up with Sabreen’s music, but I was also drawn to pop. My music is a blend of both, and I see more similarities with my dad’s work than just the genres. Like him, I love fusing styles and aim to create a sound for the future. I try to bring something new in both my music and the ideas I present, imagining the future as a Palestinian.
KA: Was there a moment that you felt like, Oh, that was a very defining moment... I want to get into music and pursue it as a career?
BM: I would say when my mom passed away in 2009. She was always ahead of her time, and always had huge ambitions and dreams. She got her PhD at a very young age. It sort of showed me how short life is and that you should take chances and do what you want to do. And I remember we did a memorial for her after 40 days of her passing, and I sang “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” After 40 days of going through this difficult experience, it was kind of healing.
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KA: Your latest work has a whole new approach. Can you delve into that a bit and the storytelling behind it?
BM: I’m working on an album that documents my journey into the West. I wrote “Wild West” over a year ago, before coming to my residency in Paris, as I transitioned to writing music in English. The song explores the realities of the West versus the “American dream” we were taught, revealing it’s not as perfect as imagined. It also touches on the bureaucratic challenges for people from SWANA [Southwest Asia and North Africa], like visas and permits, and my experience as a Jerusalemite without citizenship. It reflects on how the West perceives me as a queer Palestinian and its expectations.
KA: You’ve referenced a few major influences before— are there any other artists or genres that have inspired your music or creative process?
BM: Growing up in the Arab world, I loved Nawal El Zoghbi, like many young queers. There’s a video where she’s blowing bubbles underwater! I remember my parents finding me putting toothpaste in my mouth trying to do the same thing! I also loved glam rock, Freddie Mercury and David Bowie, because they were also very gender-bending and also incorporated fashion and just doing things that looked ahead of their time.
KA: How does your father feel about you getting into music? And how does it feel to have your father in your working space and your music?
BM: I am very lucky with my dad and my family. He’s an artist...he’s a bit more open-minded and open to exploration. He was actually doing something that wasn’t conventional by going into music.
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KA: Do you always send him your work?
BM: I think a lot of the time, especially when I do Arabic music, I have to—writing in Arabic lyrics, for example, can be very challenging. It’s easy to be cringey or easy to say stuff that doesn’t sound natural. And I respect his opinion so much that I usually don’t go to him until something is almost ready, and I want to hear his last, final input. I just respect his opinion a lot as a musician, so I let go of my ego. Even though my dad’s very expressive—his facial expressions are very telling! Sometimes I’m like, “Do you hate it?” and he’s like, “No, I’m just focusing.”
KA: How did he handle endorsing your queer identity in music?
BM: I never officially “came out.” As a kid, I would dress up in my mom’s clothes, and my parents always knew something was different. When I started making music with songs like “ILKUL 3AM BITJAWAZ” and “Ana Zalameh,” I addressed these themes. My “coming-out” moment was when Western media labeled me as a “queer Palestinian artist” after my 2019 collaboration with Hatari, a label they gave me rather than me choosing it. My dad and I had a brief discussion about it, and he understood. Given his own experience as a Muslim married to a Christian, he’s always challenged norms, and that’s how I was raised.
KA: Many Palestinians resist being defined solely by the “occupation” and prefer not to be invited to panels or conversations just because they’re Palestinian, but for their full identity and work.
BM: When I was younger, I tried to escape being Palestinian, wanting the freedom I saw on TV. But through experience—leaving Palestine, coming back, and living real life—I came into my identity. For two years, I crossed the Qalandia checkpoint daily for work. What should have been a 15-minute trip took 2 to 3 hours, and I witnessed soldiers shooting people. After that, you can’t escape who you are anymore.
KA: It just becomes part of who you are.
BM: Yes, and at the same time, of course, I don’t want to be pigeonholed into one identity. I’m many things. I’m an artist, I’m a singer, I’m a Palestinian, I’m queer, but above all, I’m human! And because of the reality we live under, it’s important for me to highlight this part of my identity. I see how much we’re dehumanized and how much we’re excluded from main platforms, and so obviously it makes me even more connected and tied to that identity. ❤
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