My first EP will be called Grown because every song helped me grow through something traumatic. It was the only way I could process what happened; to make sense of the emotions and move through them. Writing was how I  released the weight and transformed into the next version of myself. 

When you sing, do you feel like you’re stepping into yourself — or stepping out of yourself? What changes in your body when you let sound take the lead? 

I’ve recently noticed I always close my eyes when I sing. Because I can’t see anything, I get so focused on the sound that I sometimes bump my mouth into the mic — or I open my eyes and realise the mic isn’t even where my mouth is anymore, so no one can hear me! When that happens, it kind of snaps me out of it, like, “Okay, focus — people need  to hear you.” So yeah, I definitely step out of myself when I sing.

In real life, I’m super aware of my body and how I come across. But when I sing, that completely disappears. All I feel are the emotions in the music, and I let them come through my voice. It’s kind of like meditating — though I don’t really meditate. I just sing. It reminds me of that scene in Soul when Joe Gardner plays the piano and drifts into that dreamy, meditative space. That’s what it feels like. 

What does home feel like to you these days? Is it a physical place, a moment in time, a person, a rhythm? 

Home is such a weird concept. I had to talk to my friends to try to figure out how to answer this. As a child of the diaspora and of immigrants, I’ve never felt fully like I belonged anywhere. I’ve got about 15% French blood, but when I was in Palestine, I was  “the Frenchie.” Then in France, I was seen as “the Arab.” People even called me ‘beurette.’[1]

When we arrived in France, my parents told me not to get used to it because we’d eventually go back to Palestine. I wasn’t even allowed to study extinct languages at school like Latin or ancient Greek (not that I particularly wanted to...)  because, in their words, “You’re not French — why learn the roots of a language  that’s not yours?” 

So, I never had a real home. France didn’t feel like home because I thought we’d leave, but I ended up staying in Paris until I was 17, and then I decided to move to  London. Moving to London was wild because I had to create my own version of home from scratch, without my family, who always defined for me what was and wasn’t home. Over time, through meeting people, making and losing friends, I  created a safe space with people who understand and share my values. 

I don’t think home will ever be a physical space for me. It’s more of a feeling —  of safety, of being completely myself. And I’ve come to understand that I get to decide what “home” is, and where it is, no matter where I am in this world.  

Where in your creative process do you feel most like yourself? Is it in writing, recording, performing, or somewhere in between? 

I’d say somewhere between writing and performing with my incredible band. 

Writing is when I feel the most like myself because that’s when I’m channelling all my emotions into melody and lyrics. I’m 50% vulnerable when I write because I’m completely alone, and there’s no one watching. The other 50% kicks in when I share what I’ve written with my band. I know they won’t judge me, but they have a musical knowledge that I don’t, which can make me feel a bit shy. Somehow, they always manage to translate exactly what I had in mind into beautiful sounds. 

That trust we have makes it possible for me to be totally vulnerable, and that’s when I feel the most like myself — both in the writing and the performance. It’s a two-step process. 

What have you unlearned recently — in art, in identity, or in how you move through the world? And what made that unlearning necessary?