DEF JAM will probably never sign them, but Cheikh Oumar Cyrille Touré, from a small town about 100 miles southeast of Dakar, Senegal, and Hamada Ben Amor, a 22-year-old man from a port city 170 miles southeast of Tunis, may be two of the most influential rappers in the history of hip-hop.

During the recent wave of revolutions across the Arab world and the protests against illegitimate presidents in African countries like Guinea and Djibouti, rap music has played a critical role in articulating citizen discontent over poverty, rising food prices, blackouts, unemployment, police repression and political corruption. Rap songs in Arabic in particular — the new lingua franca of the hip-hop world — have spread through YouTube, Facebook, mixtapes, ringtones and MP3s from Tunisia to Egypt, Libya and Algeria, helping to disseminate ideas and anthems as the insurrections progressed. El Général, for example, was featured on a mixtape put out by the dissident group Khalas (Enough) in Libya, which also included songs like “Tripoli Is Calling” and “Dirty Colonel.”

Why has rap — an American music that in its early global spread was associated with thuggery and violence — come to be so highly influential in these regions? After all, rappers are not the only musicians involved in politics. Late last week, protests erupted when Youssou N’Dour, a Senegalese singer of mbalax, a fusion of traditional music with Latin, pop and jazz, was barred by a constitutional court from pursuing a run for president. But mbalax singers are typically seen as older entertainers who often support the government in power. In contrast, rappers, according to the Senegalese rapper Keyti, “are closer to the streets and can bring into their music the general feeling of frustration among people.”

Another reason is the oratorical style rap employs: rappers report in a direct manner that cuts through political subterfuge. Rapping can simulate a political speech or address, rhetorical conventions that are generally inaccessible to the marginal youth who form the base of this movement. And in places like Senegal, rap follows in the oral traditions of West African griots, who often used rhyming verse to evaluate their political leaders. “M.C.’s are the modern griot,” Papa Moussa Lo, a k a Waterflow, told me in an interview a few weeks ago. “They are taking over the role of representing the people.”

Although many of these rappers style themselves as revolutionary upstarts, they are most concerned with protecting a constitutional order that they see as being trampled by unscrupulous politicians. On “Coup 2 Gueule,” Thiat accuses President Abdoulaye Wade of election fraud and of siphoning money from Senegal’s Chemical Industries company (I.C.S.) and the African air traffic management organization (Asecna). He raps in Wolof, the dominant language in Senegal, “Old man, your seven-year presidential reign has been expensive/As if it wasn’t enough that you cheated during the last elections/You ruined the I.C.S. and hijacked Asecna’s money.” (It flows better in Wolof.)

Most of these rappers made music prior to the political events that swept their countries. But by speaking boldly and openly about a political reality that was not being otherwise acknowledged, rappers hit a nerve, and their music served as a call to arms for the budding protest movements. In Egypt, the rapper Mohamed el Deeb told me in a recent interview, “shallow pop music and love songs got heavy airplay on the radio, but when the revolution broke out, people woke up and refused to accept shallow music with no substance.”

As the Arab revolutions and African protests are ousting and discrediting establishment politicians, the young populations of these regions are looking to rappers as voices of clarity and leadership. Waterflow raises money at his shows to support his community because, like many of his fans, he believes that “waiting for our political leaders to give us opportunities is a waste of time.” Other Senegalese rappers helped found the movement Y’en a Marre (“We’re Fed Up”), which has crystallized opposition to President Wade and led a campaign to register young voters for the elections next month. Some are even supporting candidates for president. The rapper Keyti does not back the candidacy of Mr. N’Dour, because he thinks he’s trying to run out of self-interest, but acknowledges that it “was much needed to make people realize how politicians have failed.”

Rappers are hoping to inaugurate a different kind of politics. They would sooner make a pilgrimage to the South Bronx than to the Senegalese, Sufi holy city of Touba; they reject the predefined roles available within the political arena. And we shouldn’t forget that despite being thrust into the spotlight at a historic moment, rappers are also artists who want to make their music. As Deeb raps in his song “Masrah Deeb” (Deeb’s Stage) — written in the early days of the Egyptian revolution to remind people why they were taking to the streets — “I’m not a dictator/Deeb’s a doctor in the beat department.”

VIDEO http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-south-asia-15751286

“I have one dream,” he said. “Traveling to New York City. I don’t know why, but I feel a connection to that city.”

For two countries that have spent so much time together, the traces of an American cultural impact are faint and will grow dimmer still as the United States military withdraws. There are no golden arches, Dunkin’ Donuts or Starbucks — although a newly opened cafe is called Facebook Coffee — but there is a hip-hop scene.

In a stuffy recreation hall that was once a headquarters for a local militia but now serves as their clubhouse, a ghetto hangout where they feel safe — these days, anyway — Mr. Jabbar and his friends hone their rhymes and their dance moves. The walls are scribbled with graffiti and adorned with posters of Avril Lavigne and Bruce Lee.

Iraq may still be a place defined by Islam, sectarianism, violence and political dysfunction, but here in this clubhouse, and at larger gatherings of rappers and dancers in Baghdad’s parks, are vignettes of another sort, defiant gestures of rebellion in a social order with little space for individual expression, especially of the sort draped in Western mores.

“We are living in a tribal society, that is very religious, and this is against Islamic traditions,” said Aksan Adel Habeb, 28, outfitted in a Los Angeles Lakers jersey and white do-rag. “What we are trying to show the world is that there is something beautiful in Iraq.”

Their rap songs are expressions of disenchantment, of youthful rage at a society that seemingly has no place for their aspirations and a sadness over what has become of their country — the same themes of alienation that animate hip-hop anywhere. A translation of the lyrics to one song goes like this: “It’s out of our hands, to live in peace in our lands, every night I pray for the Lord of heaven to heal the wounds of Iraqis, and the black days become happy days.”

They rap in Arabic and English, embrace America’s culture but not necessarily the war, and see no reason to disavow their Islamic identity, even though their leaders and neighbors accuse them of being apostates.

“I’m a Muslim,” said Mr. Jabbar, 20, who has two years left at Sadr Islamic College, a local university. “I don’t have to reject that.”

“We mix Western music and Islamic subjects, Arabic music and hip-hop,” said Mr. Habeb, whose rap nickname is Predator. Another rapper is nicknamed The American, because, his friends say, he looks American and wears American clothes. He was once shot at for wearing shorts, a cultural taboo here.

They find solace in hip-hop and dancing, and imbued in their lyrics and their attitude is a soulful sadness over what their country has become. “My idea for democracy is for each one to have the right to do what they want to do, and not harm someone else,” said Abdul Jabbar, 29. “The main threat is the Islamic parties and militias,” he said, adding that most of Iraq’s leaders “think democracy is imposing what they believe on to others.”

Millions of Americans have spent time here over the last eight years, including soldiers, diplomats and contractors. But a cultural symbiosis, which started early when soldiers mingled freely with residents on the streets and in tea shops, was extinguished when the insurgency sent Americans behind tall blast walls and into the cocoons of armored vehicles.

Around then, these guys stopped meeting up, stopped dancing and rapping.

“We were not able to even go outside the door,” Ali Jabbar said.

He is from Sadr City, the poor Shiite neighborhood that is a bastion of support for Moktada al-Sadr, the anti-American cleric. He claims — no doubt accurately — to be “the only rapper in Sadr City.”

Mr. Sadr, who communicates with his followers by answering questions online, was recently asked by a 17-year-old rapper named Omar if Islam permitted his passion. Mr. Sadr replied, “It is forbidden,” and advised the young man to repent, to stop recording rap songs and to “ask God for forgiveness.”

Kanye West raps about the hard-knocks life, but he grew up in comfortable circumstances as the son of a photojournalist and an academic. Here, there are no disingenuous claims on street credibility.

Abdul Jabbar was kidnapped in 2004, grabbed from this club by militiamen. He was tortured, and has the scars to prove it, for his outward embrace of American culture.

“They told me, ‘Why are you doing this?’ ” he recalled. “ ‘It’s forbidden.’ And they kept beating me.”

It is safer now to do what they do, but not safe. “I am sure something bad will happen to me,” he said, before adding a defiant refrain common among Iraqis inured to torment. “I’m not afraid.”

September 18, 2011

 In Blunt and Sometimes Crude Rap, a Strong Political Voice Emerges

DAKAR, Senegal — A revolution led by rappers says something about a country’s politics or its music, or maybe both.

In Senegal, the political mainstream appears stagnant and the musicians anything but, which explains why laid-back musicians with stage names like Fou Malade (“Crazy Sick Guy”) and Thiat (“Junior”) are leading a vigorous demonstration movement against the country’s octogenarian president, who does not want to leave office.

The usual regional trappings of power — a $27 million monumental statue overlooking the capital, a new presidential plane, tinkering with the country’s Constitution — have not gone down well in a poor but proud West African country used to something better. They have led to a season of revolt, on the North African model, in this coastal country, a former French colony.

There were riots this summer with tear gas and tire burnings, and several large-scale demonstrations, one of them even forcing President Abdoulaye Wade to back away from constitutional changes that would almost ensure his third term in office.

At the forefront have been rappers like Fou Malade (real name: Malal Talla) and Thiat (Cheikh Oumar Cyrille Touré). They have been firing up the crowds of young men who have surged through the city’s streets, leading the demonstrators and — picked on by Mr. Wade’s police officers — serving as martyrs for the antigovernment cause.

In July, dozens of fans waited for Thiat outside the main prison in Dakar while the police asked him whether he had publicly disrespected Mr. Wade at a rally.

“An old man of 90 who lies has no role in the country,” Thiat was accused of saying, and he did not deny it. (Mr. Wade is believed to be in his mid-80s, though there are conflicting accounts.) Amid an outcry in the news media and on the streets, Thiat was let go.

It is not that Senegal lacks established politicians, political parties or even newspapers opposing Mr. Wade, often with torrents of incendiary if wide-of-the-mark verbiage, a Senegalese tradition. The rappers, however, have struck a nerve because they cut to the chase. Their language is direct, sometimes crude and quite unambiguous.

“In politics, nothin’ but hypocrites, robbers of cash. Government, why do you always lie, always?” rap Fou Malade and his “Bat’Haillons Blin-D” (“Fou Malade and the Armored Battalion,” with a play on the word for “rags,” haillon) in French, in the song “We’re Going to Tell Everything.”

In Wolof, Senegal’s dominant language, they continue, comparing the state to a small, traditional fishing boat: “The pirogue is sinking, and whoever dares say it spends the night at the D.I.C.,” referring to the Criminal Investigations Division.

As for Mr. Wade, Fou Malade sings, his “speeches get on our nerves.”

The rappers have not had lucrative turns in power themselves, as many in the political opposition have. And as young men in ragged T-shirts and rough wool caps — carrying the look and style of the thousands of youthful dispossessed who eke out marginal existences here, selling phone-recharge cards on the streets, for instance — they are easily identified and easily contrasted with the aging president.

So it was natural that the rappers would help found a new political movement here, Y’En A Marre (“Fed Up”), that has become a potent force at the heart of resistance to Mr. Wade’s efforts to stay in office despite his previous promises and constitutional provisions to the contrary.

Though the group is based here in the capital, Dakar, where opposition parties and politicians have the most support, Y’En A Marre remains officially unaligned. Ever since the group was formed in January, its leaders have vowed that they will not be co-opted by establishment politicians from richer neighborhoods, instead sticking to their roots in the rough, working-class district of Parcelles Assainies — the name translates as “cleaned-up lots.”

In Parcelles Assainies, the treeless streets are sandy, goats share the living space and a “Treatment Center for Witchcraft and Evil Eye” adjoins a horse-drawn-cart delivery depot for bottled gas.

True to form, Fou Malade, a k a Mr. Talla, does not stand on ceremony in delivering the group’s message. He sprawled on an old sofa, spread out the newspaper and yawned during a recent interview at the group’s headquarters. An imam called the faithful to prayer from a small mosque across the street, and goats bleated next door.

“We are equidistant from all parties,” said Mr. Talla, 37. “We are a watchdog movement. We have no ties to the parties,” he added, between glances at the paper.

Thiat did not show up as expected: it was well after midday, but a telephone call revealed that Y’En A Marre’s other leading rapper had not yet emerged from bed.

While other opposition figures recently made the pilgrimage to Touba, Senegal’s equivalent of Mecca, to consult with religious leaders — Mr. Wade often makes the same trip — Y’En A Marre refused. “We don’t think Senegal’s problems are resolved at Touba,” Mr. Talla said.

“We are the ones who started the movement,” he said. “We said the moment was over for talking. We think the political parties have failed.” He added: “They talk, but the Senegalese don’t listen.”

The government spokesman, Serigne Mbacké Ndiaye, defended progress under Mr. Wade. “Those who criticize us governed Senegal for 40 years between 1960 and 2000 and didn’t do a single thing that would have allowed the country to develop,” he said.

About the presidential plane, Mr. Ndiaye said, “This plane addresses issues of security and national dignity, and besides is not the property of President Wade but of Senegal,” adding that the plane also transports the country’s national sports teams.

Mr. Wade, in a recent interview with the French newspaper La Croix, directly questioned how much influence the new opposition group could wield. “The rappers of Y’En A Marre represent only themselves. They’ve got nothing to do with the youth in the interior of the country,” he said.

But the size of the recent demonstrations, and the fact that Mr. Wade had to back down from his efforts to change the Constitution after one of them on June 23, appear to indicate something else.

Y’En A Marre was born in frustration: at days of cuts in electricity, at pervasive poverty, and at a leader who does not want to give up power.

“One day, there was 20 hours of cuts,” said Fadel Barro, 33, a journalist and a friend of the rappers, whose dimly lit apartment served as the place where the movement took shape. “I said: ‘Guys, everyone knows you. But you’re not doing anything to change the country.’ ” Those words energized the musicians.

The movement’s objective is simple, Mr. Barro said: “That they stop making futilities priorities, like the Monument de la Renaissance” — the giant statue — “or buying new planes. We’re fighting so that the preoccupations of the Senegalese return to the center of politics.”

From the Wall Street Journal

By jackson allers

In late October, the Brooklyn-based live hip-hop outfit Chen Lo and the Liberation Family – known now as The Lo Frequency -came to Beirut for a two-month residency in order to establish a Hip-Hop Academy and to perform with local talent (MCs, DJs, and producers). The US embassy initiative was not exactly what they expected. Beats and Breath linked up with the Lo Frequency in Brooklyn to discuss what ultimately became a two-month blessing for the Arab hip-hop movement.

OG members of The Lo Frequency fam (L to R: BAASIK, Chen Lo, Ken White, DJ Scandales)

BEIRUT – I first heard about Chen Lo and the Liberation Family in early 2010 after musical contacts of mine in the United States told me to be on the look out for a hip-hop band on a US State Department world tour co-sponsored by Jazz at the Lincoln Center. The tour, called the Rhythm Road Tour, was due to stop in Beirut in the spring, and the Liberation Family was one of ten bands touring regions of the world “under the auspices of cultural exchange and diplomacy.”

My friends said if I was in Beirut in April, I needed to check them out.

As fate would have it, I was out of Lebanon during their Beirut tour stop, but by all local accounts, and despite a poorly attended, poorly promoted show, Chen Lo and The Liberation Family was the best hip-hop show Beirut had seen in 2010.

Six months later, the Liberation Family, was back in Beirut prepared to conduct a Hip-Hop Academy with US embassy support. Or so I was told.

What actually occurred was a little bit of a cultural soap opera with “dastardly” characters from both the local club scene and the US embassy performing a “vanishing act” when the band, an expanded 6-piece group now called The Lo Frequency, arrived in Beirut in late October from Brooklyn, New York.

Left with only a housing stipend, airfare and a paired-down version of the original Hip-Hop Academy proposal, group founder, rapper Chen Lo said the band’s “cultural refugee” status in Beirut was a blessing in disguise. “To be honest. Not only did it force us to pull our resources together in a short period of time, but also it gave us the freedom to shape our experience with minimal interference from the US embassy,” Lo said.

Lo, a well-established hip-hop lyricist who has performed with hip-hop heavyweights like Nas and KRS-ONE, singer Erykah Badu and with legendary Last Poets member, Abiodun Oyewole, was joined in Beirut by Ken White, a jazz drummer and percussionist with influences as far ranging as Indian classical music to West African drumming.

White said, “While the embassy seemed content to settle for the bare minimum of conditions…Broadly speaking, I think we were successful in doing much of what we set out to do. We put on a showcase event at Beirut’s City Theater (Masrah al Medina) that highlighted some of the best talent the Lebanese hip hop scene has to offer.”

The musical director of The Lo Frequency, White and Lo formed the original Liberation Family in 2007, two years after meeting at New York University. Now the band includes DJ Scandales, a Queens, New York-native and veteran turntablist who gets down with many of New York’s hip-hop royalty, and one of the few women bass players holding it down on the New York hip-hop scene, BAASIK. Rounding out the group are North Carolina native soul singer Shannon Grier (Editor’s note: crazy vocal skills) and guitar phenomenon Hakhi Alakhun – a musician that gives me faith in my long jaded view of the guitar.

Beats and Breath caught up with Chen Lo, White and DJ Scandales just days after their return to the United States in early December to find out what went down in Beirut and to talk more generally about what they thought of the development of the Arab hip-hop scene – having seen hip-hop in Morocco, Tunisia, Algeria, Jordan, Syria and Lebanon.

NOTE: Since this interview, a lot has happened to the Lo Frequency and in the Arab world. The Arab Awakenings took root and continue throughout the Middle East and North Africa. The Lo Frequency continued building their musical repertoire, and in April, the Fam raised $7,800 in 30 days to pay for the costs of recording, mixing, mastering and packaging an EP of their music to be called The Export. And they shot a music video which will be included in a forthcoming post – directed and produced by Merass Sadek.

BEATS AND BREATH: Why did you decide on a residency in Beirut – I mean compared to all of the other cities that were part of the first tour you did?

CHEN LO: We had a chance to rock in Morocco, Tunisia, Algeria, Jordan, Lebanon and Syria. There were some strong scenes in other places we visited, some stronger than others (like the scene in Morocco). But Beirut was the place that felt like the powerhouse of the developing scenes. There was some very advanced talent here. Also, the environment, more than many others, was fertile soil for a major movement. Artists were tapping into the history of the place as well as plugging into the cosmopolitan and vastly international city that is Beirut. We just felt nature could take care of the rest.

KEN WHITE: I’d say what ultimately drew us back more than anything else was the particular personal connections we made with members of the scene. For instance, almost immediately, we had a real friend in John Nasr (aka Johnny Damascus) from (Lebanon’s live hip-hop band) Fareeq El Atrash (Forward Music Label). Turntablist DJ Lethal Skillz was a great contact point, a real professional who offered great potentials for further collaboration.

As well, for me Beirut represents a crossroads culture- a culture with a recent history of traumatic events that’s caused social upheaval…and subsequently there’s a desire to rebuild and redefine itself. You combine this with its central proximity to cultural hubs like Europe and North Africa, and add to that its center stage position in world politics – it makes Beirut fertile ground for cultural mingling, collision and creation. So when we came on our first trip to Beirut, we found a lot of like-minded people rooted in the history and the essence of hip-hop trying to build a scene and a community.

B&B: This second tour of duty in Beirut was meant to be with US embassy support – but that wasn’t what panned out in the end. What happened?

CHEN LO: We received a message (last May) that a major venue in Beirut wanted to do a collaborative performance experiment with us. Through a little cost sharing with the US Embassy in Beirut, it was proposed that they (the venue) would bring us (the Lo Frequency), house us, pay us a fee and deal with our incidental expenses.

We decided to enhance this proposal by structuring a Hip Hop Academy, followed by a showcase performance at the venue and even unique musical fusions with some of the world class musicians that worked there (at the venue). Of course the US embassy jumped all over the idea.

To say the least – when we got here we realized the venue had other things in mind and nothing worked out with them. Unfortunately (and fortunately) their final offer was not in our best interest at all and in the end they contributed absolutely NO resources to the process – which left us out here on our own.

The US embassy supported us in endeavors that were in their best interest like English speaking Access classes in a few areas around Lebanon like Tripoli and portions of the Hip Hop Academy ended up getting funded but in a severely stripped down form.

Still, in regards to really tapping the scene and moving forward, we had to hustle on our own accords. To be honest, it was the best thing that could have happened. Not only did it force us to pull our resources together in a short period, but also it gave us the freedom to shape our experience with minimal interference from the US embassy.

DJ SCANDALES: I can say that I saw Ken And Chen put In over 6 months of work with phone calls at like 4 in the morning…we were in Vietnam (on our world tour) last May when we started planning for our trip to Beirut.

Our (the groups) goal was to enhance, create and record with this hip-hop Academy – and a lot of effort went into this to assure its success — only to be undermined by our own embassy. I mean our schedule was reduced from 2 months to like 2 weeks in total, and much of it was put together the day of our meeting with the Embassy after we actually arrived in Beirut. We pretty much were newborn babies dropped off on someone’s doorstep with a note attached. Except the note had no explanation just a closing greeting of “Thanks!” But we’ve had 15-years of real world experience with in the music industry – we bounced back.

KEN: What surprised us was the amount to which we needed to rely on our local partners and our own dedication and drive to get anything meaningful done. It seemed as though the embassy agenda did not extend as far as we thought and as far as our intentions were taking us. The bare minimum seemed to be sufficient for them. It was truly our local partners in and around the hip-hop scene in Beirut that made the experience pretty monumental. In the end it worked out for the best.

B&B: What do you think about the hip-hop scene in the Arab world. Is there really a scene to speak of? Is it regional? Is it pan-Arab? What’s your assessment?

KEN: It’s hard for me to say whether there is a strong unified Pan-Arab hip-hop movement…yet. I feel it developing though.

CHEN LO: I’d say there definitely is a scene in the Arab World. In my experience over the past year, it seems like hip-hop in all of its various manifestations and angles is flourishing at a greater rate outside of the US. The Arab world is a part of that growth for sure.

DJ SCAN: For me, during our tour we saw major differences from the more seasoned Moroccan scene to the much newer Syrian hip-hop scene,

CHEN: Yeah, I think there are some regional differences, but I think it is Pan-Arab. I haven’t seen hip-hop all over the Arab World, but we’ve encountered a lot of it. North Africa, if you include it in the Arab world, has two very strong and established scenes in Algeria and Morocco. In many other places, including Lebanon, things are developing at a very rapid pace.

DJ SCAN: But what makes the Arab hip-hop scene so fresh is that it is still in its early growth stage and is untainted by Corporations dictating the direction of the music and culture.

KEN: True but there has been a lot of divide and conquer throughout the Arab world by colonial powers. People are also very entrenched in their politics. As a result, the major cross-national hip-hop scenes I see are centered on political movements like the Palestinian cause.

What I find most interesting about hip-hop in the Arab world is the commonality in the way in which most artists say they came to hip-hop. Almost across the board, artists saw hip-hop as the tool that spoke to them the most to express what they experience around them everyday. And in a climate, where proper outlets to do that are essential, it reminds me much more of the conditions in which hip-hop began in the South Bronx. As more and more artists gain popularity and begin to collaborate across national borders, they’ll find common ground and common cause in the culture of hip-hop.

B&B: Now that you guys are back in the US have you experienced any culture shock after being in Lebanon for two months?

CHEN: Being back in the US, culture shock is definitely in effect. We’re plotting on our next overseas endeavors in 2011 and working on an album. These are exciting times for us. We want to keep collaborating with artists all over the globe and making a living doing our passion. We have to get it while it’s good and make it better. KEN: It was definitely disorienting for me and still i haven’t really settled back at all. I’m still trying to get over missing all of our new friends. Our experience in Beirut was really a beginning – a launching pad to not only come back to Lebanon but tap into similar movements all over the world.

New America Media, News Report, Aisha Fukushima, Posted: Apr 16, 2011

Many prominent Arab hip-hop artists inspired by uprisings in the Middle East and North Africa have released music in solidarity with protesters in the region. Though the messages of these new songs are not necessarily new to Arab hip-hop, the urgency and relevance of this new music has gained these artists increasing international attention.While Arab hip-hop started to gain its recognition in the ‘90s, tracing back the history can be difficult in light of the fact that it stems from such a complex fusion of diasporic communities, people, art and culture. In North America, for instance, artists such as Fredwreck and The Narcicyst are cited as pioneers of Arab hip-hop, while groups such as DAM are credited with jump-starting the movement in Palestine.In a conversation with Excentrik, an East Bay music producer, “actionist” (action activist and oud player), he explained, “Yeah, there’s an Arab hip-hop scene, but it’s a global scene, it’s not like a localized scene. Unfortunately, there’s not enough cats doing quality shit that have like a [single] place to go in any of these cities… It’s an esoteric scene, it’s random because it’s so big and so spread apart.” While there are certainly active indigenous Arab hip-hop scenes throughout much of North Africa and the Middle East, the majority of the most celebrated emcees in the global scene are based in North America and Europe, where hip-hop has had a longer history and faces less challenges in terms of censorship.

That said, artists still find opportunities to collaborate and work together across both national and international lines. “Most of us Arab rappers are very well connected,” said Rush of Cairo’s premier rap group, Arabian Knightz. Collaborations between rappers can be recorded from different studios and files can be shared with the click of a mouse. “The combination of hip-hop and the Internet, and the ability to record it and put it up online immediately and bypass all these typical media outlets and typical industry outlets is what makes it so powerful,” explained Syrian-American rapper Omar Offendum in a phone interview from Los Angeles.

In North America, Iraqi-Canadian rapper, The Narcicyst and Omar Offendum are two of the most highly acclaimed emcees in the global Arab hip-hop scene. Omar Offendum often evokes the work of Arab poets through his lyrics, emphasizing the links between poetry and hip-hop. The Narcicyst, who recently released a book entitled “Fear of an Arab Planet: The Diatribes of a Dying Tribe,” touches on themes ranging from Orientalism to homeland security in his music. One of his most popular songs, ‘P.H.A.T.W.A.’ released in 2009, is set in an airport. “We went from, supported to subordinate, can’t afford it, ordered / My motherland smothered and mortared, morbid, at borders / I’m sorted out from beardless cats that boarded the plane as I was boarding,” The Narcicyst raps.

The UK also boasts some of the world’s most recognized Arab rap artists such as Lowkey, who is of British and Iraqi heritage, and Palestinian rapper, Shadia Mansour, also known as “The First Lady of Arabic Hip-Hop.” Both are known for linking artistry and activism, rapping about topics such as Palestinian resistance, occupation and terrorism. “They calling me a terrorist / Like they don’t know who the terror is / When they put it on me, I tell them this / I’m all about peace and love / They calling me a terrorist / Like they don’t know who the terror is / Insulting my intelligence / Oh how these people judge,” raps Lowkey in the song “Terrorist.” Together, they have toured extensively and collaborated on titles such as “Long Live Palestine” which incorporates Mansour’s distinctive Arabic flow and emotive singing voice.

Rapping in the Middle East

In Tunisia, a young emcee by the name of El Général was among the first in the Arab hip-hop scene to gain international attention for his raps related to the most recent waves of political unrest in the North Africa. He released two songs “Rais Le Bled” (President Your People Are Dying) and “Tounes Bladna” (Tunisia, Our Country) which were both included on the Mish B3eed mixtape put out by ‘Enough,’ a Libyan movement voicing dissent against the Gadhafi regime.

According to The UK’s Observer newspaper, “Rais Le Bled,” released in November 2010 “lit up the bleak and fearful horizon like an incendiary bomb,” reaching audiences around the world through new media platforms such as YouTube. “My president, your country is dead / People eat garbage / Look at what is happening / Misery everywhere / Nowhere to sleep / I’m speaking for the people who suffer,” he raps in Arabic. The song was quickly banned in Tunisia, but Al Jazeera Television and Tunivision were still able to pick up on the El Général story followed by other notable media outlets such as TIME magazine. Shortly thereafter, the release of “Tounes Bladna” (Tunisia, Our Country) resulted in the 21-year-old rapper’s arrest from his family’s flat in the town of Sfax in Tunisia. El Général was released after three days of interrogation thanks to an outpouring of public protest in his favor.

The January 25 uprisings in Egypt sparked a second wave of protest music from the global Arab hip-hop scene, fueling an outpour from prominent artists such as The Narcicyst, Shadia Mansour, Lowkey and Omar Offendum. This time, the songs would be multinational collaborations, incorporating news clips from Al Jazeera and photos from demonstrations in the music videos.

On February 4, just weeks after the January 25 demonstrations, Egyptian rap group Arabian Knightz posted the song “Not Your Prisoner” featuring Shadia Mansour, and Palestinian-American producer, Fredwreck on YouTube. Lyrics alternate between English and Arabic, opening the dialogue to a larger international audience. “Destructive destruction, running my district / Antichrist running it, spittin’ evil wisdom!” raps Rush (one of three members in the group). The song became an instant YouTube success, accruing thousands of views within 24 hours of being posted.

When asked in a Skype interview about the role of their music in bringing about social change, Rush replied, “The people who started the revolution are teenagers. I doubt that the motive of the revolution, the music they were listening to while planning all these things, was ‘habibi’ music. I am sure it was hip-hop.” The ‘habibi’ music Rush refers to can be described as sentimental, easy-listening pop that is widespread in Arabic media channels. That music, according to many Arab hip-hop artists, fails to address the real concerns of youth on the front lines of protest throughout the Middle East and North Africa.

The North American Connection

A few days later, North American artists The Narcicyst, Omar Offendum, Freeway, Ayah, Amir Sulaiman and producer, Sami Matar contributed to the dialogue with a collaboration entitled “#Jan25.” The song, posted on YouTube, has drawn nearly 200,000 views, and even caught the attention of Al Jazeera, which interviewed Omar Offendum shortly after the song was released.

“I heard ‘em say / The revolution wont be televised / Al Jazeera proved ‘em wrong / Twitter has ‘em paralyzed / 80 million strong / And ain’t no longer gonna be terrorized / Organized – Mobilized – Vocalized / On the side of TRUTH,” raps Omar Offendum in the opening verse of the song. The use of graphic Al Jazeera news clips and gorilla photography throughout much of the music video is illustrates the grassroots nature of the Arab hip-hop scene, using a combination of audio and visual media to communicate their message to a growing audience of listeners.

In the meantime, mounting tensions in Libya inspired 26-year-old Chicago rapper M. Khaled to release a music video entitled “Can’t Take Our Freedom,” featuring UK rapper, Lowkey. The first lines of the chorus, “You can’t take our freedom, or take our soul / Take our freedom or take our soul / You are not the one that’s in control / You are not the one that’s in control,” sum up the overall message of the song speaking to the Gadhafi regime.

“It was never my intention to be a political rapper, or write political songs,” said M. Khaled in an interview with Arab Detroit News. Even so, this most recent release has become one of his most popular tracks to date. This song also seems to tie back to the legacy of his father, Mohamed Ahmed, who was reportedly held as a political prisoner in Libya for five years after leading student protests against the Gadhafi regime. “Like, could we be this close? Nah, couldn’t be / But if the people in Egypt and Tunis could do this, decide their fate…then why wouldn’t we?” raps M. Khaled.

Although the original music video for “Can’t Take Our Freedom” was removed from YouTube for reasons that are not entirely clear, several fans have reposted the song using their own personal online accounts. In addition to gaining popularity online, the song attracted the attention of media outlets such as ABC World News and CNN that profiled the story of the young rapper.

The Solidarity Rap

Each of these new protest songs in their own way illustrates a collective consciousness around growing political unrest in the Middle East and North Africa among artists in the Arab hip-hop scene. Solidarity with protesters is the central theme that runs throughout much of this new music. This solidarity is also reflected in the collaborative nature of many of these pieces featuring hip-hop artists who are spread across different cities and continents. Even on a local front, Bay Area hip-hop pioneer Davey D released a “Beats for Revolution Mixtape” that features “Not Your Prisoner” and “#Jan25,” alongside the sounds of Dead Prez, Public Enemy and Immortal Technique.

As political unrest continues to unfold throughout much of the Middle East and North Africa, many Arab hip-hop artists are optimistic, but cautious. “One thing governments cannot take away from the people is the will to live,” wrote Lebanese-Armenian Bay Area rap artist Tru Bloo in an e-mail. “I think we, in the U.S., have a lot to learn from these movements,” she added.

“There is a hopefulness and a sobering feeling,” said Oakland-based Lebanese American soul singer, Naima Shalhoub, of the ongoing events.

Still, artists involved in the Arab hip-hop scene remain inspired by the significance that music has in motivating and empowering youth. “The way kids listen to music is a really powerful thing,” said London-based rapper Logic after his concert at the University of California, Berkeley with Shadia Mansour and Lowkey last month.

Realizing the power that their music has to speak to youth in the face of adversity, Arab hip-hop artists do not take their work lightly. “Music plays a big role in influencing people,” said The Narcicyst, “and I almost think for our generation… music speaks to us louder than politics does.”