Why Don’t Egyptians Listen to Diaspora Music?

At the end of most nights out in Cairo, you end up on the sofa in someone’s living room, ordering late-night food and exchanging music recommendations with whoever else happens to be there. Depending on the demographic, you might watch videos of Egyptian pop divas from the early 2000s, delve into traditional music from the region, or catch up on the latest releases and emerging artists. 

If most people were born and raised in the region, the musicians they’ll play will usually not include the diaspora and/or songs by Arabic speakers sung in English. If the gathering is a mix of those who were born and raised there, those visiting from abroad, and those who have recently moved back, the living room will fill with different sounds.

“This is repetitive,” an Egyptian might say about a song that overuses the word “habibi.” “It’s very bland,” a Sudanese might say about a music video showing an artist serving tea on a carpet. “This is my Beyoncé!” retorts the diasporan who just moved to Cairo. “She was the first one I saw that looked and sounded like me. She’s the voice of our generation!” 

And she might be abroad, but at home, people are looking for something different. 

Innovation vs nostalgia 

According to a conversation Lebanese American music journalist Danny Hajjar and Egyptian British journalist Deana Soni had on their podcast Shik Shak Shook Ones, Arab diasporas usually take time to catch up with what’s happening in the region. Abroad, people are still bumping albums from the early 2000s, probably because their vision of home is influenced by their parents’ experiences and nostalgia. 

“Egyptians born and raised in Egypt have experienced life differently to Egyptians born and raised abroad,” says Soni in an interview with OkayAfrica. “Egyptians from Egypt don’t need to worry about explaining their religion or why they speak Arabic. They don’t need to explain their customs, habits, or tastes. Whereas the diaspora grew up in a world where they had to be the spokesperson for their countries, cultures, and religions. So, of course, the place that ‘Western’ artists create music from is different.”

Sonically, diaspora musicians are more likely to sample older songs and fuse them with Western rhythms and/or languages, while the region explores new sounds and invents new genres. 

“To Egyptians who find diaspora artists cringey, have a chat with them about what it was like growing up, potentially completely isolated from their Egyptian roots. Yes, it is cringey to say habibi 234 times in one song or replace the random word with an Arabic one, but for them that might be the expression they longed for growing up,” says Soni. “I understand both sides and totally agree that you can be a successful artist from the diaspora without orientalizing yourself.” 

Confusing the diaspora 

“Diaspora” has become a vague term that is difficult to define. Is it someone born and raised abroad? Does one become a member of the diaspora when moving abroad? How about those who grow up between the region and outside of it? Is moving to Malaysia the same as moving to the US, or does the West make one more “diasporic?” 

Even if one finds clear definitions of “diaspora” and “home,” the two still have blurred boundaries in Egypt, where the TikTok trend “Egypt vs. Masr” shows that there are several class-based cultures and lifestyles within the same country. Musicians who were raised in Western education systems and live life in comfortable margins are sometimes perceived as “diaspora,” even though they have always/mostly lived in Egypt.

As an audience, the elite are more likely to listen to diaspora artists. As musicians, the elite are less likely to find resonance amongst the masses. Music is often about connecting over shared experiences or sentiments, and Egyptian society is extremely divided. Listening habits mirror this division, and a rich kid singing about Cairo will not be seen as authentic, even though they might be singing about their actual life. 

Egyptian environmental justice and climate researcher Amena Sharaf notices the outside influence, even when an artist grew up in Egypt, but was educated in a non-Egyptian schooling system. “Good writing comes from a recognition of the culture, and that is simply missing when you live a life that’s extremely sanitized,” she says. “If you studied art in the West, the music and use of language just won’t sound like something you’d hear in Egypt.”

Masr: a stronghold against identity politics? 

Beneath the sonic and visual differences between the diaspora and the region lies a more existential question: what it means to be North African today and where North African art is headed in the future. 

“You can always tell the diaspora flavor by its liberal identity politics”, says Menna Shanab, an Egyptian American music journalist who moved to Cairo seven years ago. “‘The first pop princess to…’ kind of narratives. The region never had that before; if you grew up in Egypt, you don’t need to constantly showcase your identity, you just wake up and drink coffee and exist. Abroad, you have to clutch onto it.” 

The increasing need to self-identify as an Arab or Egyptian is a symptom of creeping Westernization that feels more natural to the audiences of Egypt than Masr. “I don’t want to hear a song that says ‘Cairooo,’” says Sharaf. “It makes an artist look like they’re completely removed from reality, but trying so hard to be part of reality. Maybe the art is deep to the artist, but it isn’t deep to the masses.” 

One of Sharaf’s favorite songs is “Youmak Beydhak” by Egyptian shaabi singer Abdel Basset Hamouda. “It’s such a lighthearted song, and it reminds me of Egypt. He sings: your day is going to smile when you smile, and you come over and say hello,” she says. “This puts the image of Cairo in my brain much more than someone singing Cairo over and over again.”