The first time I heard a song by Saint Levant, only three years ago, was in a world that does not exist any more. Gaza's buildings were intact, as were its schools and roads and markets and mosques. My home city of Khartoum in Sudan was standing, as it had for centuries. Back then, I could scroll for fun, not in dread. I could stumble, say, in late 2022, upon an arresting clip on TikTok of a song by an Arab artist with a pun for a name; Saint Levant, a play on Saint Laurent – the icon of western style had been Arabised in homage to the Middle East's Levant region.
I began to see the same song all over my social media. In the video, Saint Levant, then 22, is in a white vest and brown trousers. A gold pendant chain dangles on his chest, a tattoo encircles his left arm. He starts by rapping in English, telling the woman he is wooing that “he's not toxic, he's broken babyâ€. And then, the twist, as he switches to Arabic, then French, then English again. Like a wholesome boy next door, he tells her to send his regards to her grandmother and her brother. Then says that he wants to make her forget about her ex, he wants her overthinking all her texts, he wants the neighbours to hear her yell. “Lover boy Levant is back in the building,†he declared.
What we had here, was a certified fuckboy. Someone in the chaste Arabic music scene talking publicly about sex and dating, rather than the usual coy flirtation or yearning. Within weeks, the song, Very Few Friends, had racked up millions of listens. But still, Saint Levant remained an enigma. From the lyrics, it was hard to place where he came from. I assumed he was Lebanese, the spiritual home of the Arabic Francophone lover boy. Then I discovered that he is Palestinian. This made him even more of a curio in the mainstream Middle Eastern pop scene, one dominated by Egypt and Lebanon.
In March 2023, an album arrived, From Gaza, With Love. It established Saint Levant's roots, but remained in the trilingual chat-up pop genre. It was largely unremarkable, and I filed Saint Levant away in my mind as a one-hit wonder. Then in April 2023, war erupted in Sudan, and death, fear and escape from bullets and bombs was visited on home and family. I forgot about Saint Levant, as I forgot about all music, all art, all entertainment. Six months after the start of the war in Sudan came 7 October, and another war gathered an unstoppable momentum.
In my mind, Gaza and Sudan merged into one catastrophe. In the moments when I was not dealing with the practical fallout from war – family extractions, visa applications, panicked wiring of funds – I was scrolling. Scrolling past my home city being destroyed, Gaza being levelled, and corpses, corpses, corpses. At night, after I put my toddlers to bed, I tried to chase away the thought that in their slumber in the night they looked like the dead children I had seen during the day.
The commitment to be constantly looking, never turning away, felt like a sort of fidelity to the suffering. If I was not among the dead and besieged, the least I could do was to keep vigil. The Sudanese term for this sort of codified observance is beit bika, or “house of cryingâ€, the name for the home of the deceased, where a wake is held for three days after burial. There are strict protocols in the house of crying. No colourful clothing, no loud laughter, no jewellery or perfume, no music or TV.
This was a shared grief. For more than a year, in a virtual constellation of WhatsApp groups chats, voice memos and email chains between my Arab friends and family, a closeness had been born out of seeing what was happening in Palestine, a place that was totemic for being an open wound at the heart of the Arab world. Gaza prompted a steady stream of check-ins and concern and thinking about yous and hope you're OKs. In these groups, there was no need to explain, to translate. We felt the same things – loss, helplessness, rage. The last time something similar coalesced was during the Arab spring, where every revolution wherever it was seemed like your own.
And then, in December 2024, Bashar al-Assad fell. For the first time in more than a year, the messages received were not commiserations, but expressions of hope and celebration. During that time, I stumbled on Saint Levant again. In the few months since his debut as transgressive Lover boy Levant, it seemed that he had evolved into a political voice, an artist now merging love songs with laments on the pain of exile from Palestine, standing among men with keffiyehs drawn across their faces.
At a time when Palestine had produced a tragically galvanising moment for Arabs, Saint Levant emerged as the region's first bona fide commercial Palestinian pop artist, and in the process had become one of the biggest stars in the Middle East. The few Palestinian artists who had made it big before him had done so through rousing political anthems. Among other Arab artists, Palestine was the preserve of older generations, who had produced now canonical songs of yearning and lament for Palestine. A singer who was of Palestine, but broke with the sobriety of expression about it, was a shock to the system in a way that was invigorating and scandalising.
And so Saint Levant quickly became a flashpoint. To some, he seemed to have instrumentalised politics to help his career and broken the rules of vigil by embracing revelry. To others, he was an artist who inspired fierce loyalty for plotting the right way out of grief while proudly championing the Palestinian cause. He had become a test case of something bigger. For many Arabs, this was a moment of unifying crisis, but it triggered different and contradictory impulses. Some wanted to mourn and rage against what was being destroyed, others wanted to celebrate and seek comfort in all that remained. In the middle of the two, between passionate fandom and bitter scepticism, was a young man from Gaza.
It was a mercifully cool November afternoon in Doha when I first met him. Saint Levant was in town to perform his first Qatar concerts, and was just about to give a talk to some students. I walked into a narrow corridor backstage and there he was, smiling broadly. Within seconds of being introduced, he complimented me on my outfit. “It's fire,†he said. I would come to realise that he says “fire†a lot.
Tall, dressed in black, still in his skin, there was something balletic about him, as if any moment he would spin into a pirouette. He was, I soon learned, charming. He received no compliment without acknowledgment, even something as simple as “nice to meet youâ€, he responded to with “habibitiâ€, an Arabic term of endearment. At times, he came across less like a pop star, and more like a politician, offering “follow your dreams†answers to questions from young fans. As he was mugged by admirers, he looked, or did an excellent job of looking, like he was enjoying it as much as they were. There was no hint of self-consciousness about the sensitivity of the political moment, and where he stood in it.
The next day I sat down with him. He was on his laptop, immersed in the work of finalising his upcoming album. When he realised I was Sudanese, he immediately pulled up some Sudanese music and started to dance. He then launched into an enthusiastic conversation about Sudanese music, the artists he loved, how there was something uniquely uplifting about its form. As we talked, he hummed, drummed the table, like he was immersed in a soundtrack that I couldn't hear, or impatient to return to one that I was keeping him from.
He did not seem to register all that was building around him, that angst and controversy about how to carry yourself as a public entertainer – a Palestinian entertainer – in a time of crisis. He was just happy to be able to make music, he said. Sensing the discomfort, I said to him it must be weird to receive so much adulation. “I mean, people are calling me ‘the voice of a generation,'†he said, looking visibly irritated by the phrase. “How can I go around thinking of myself as the voice of a generation? No,†he shook his head. “Ma biseer†(It's not OK). He pointed to his head and brought it down to the table. “I don't want my head to get big,†he said. I suggested to him that at a moment when Palestinians, Muslims and Arabs are facing such persecution and humiliation, there was something new in a generation of Arab artists being political with such swag. He looked surprised. “Really?†he said. Then he laughed. “We always had swag.â€
Over the next three days, in the buildup to his concert, I observed him in public Q&As and mingling with fans as part of Qatar's annual Fashion Trust Arabia festival, a gathering of global and Arab fashion, music and culture. To be within the Saint Levant microclimate was to be immersed in what was appealing about him. That sense of light confidence and openness to good things happening amid dark times. “Sometimes,†he said in Doha, when writing music, “he's just feeling flirty.†At another point, he talked about recently attending a wedding in Amman with his school friends and one of his songs coming on and filling the dancefloor, his friends celebrating their old buddy together. “It was peak life,†he said.
While he can be vague or awkward in assessing his own position in the culture, Saint Levant has been strident in his condemnation of Israeli occupation and genocide in Gaza, and his insistence on Palestinian liberation. His focus, he said in a 2022 interview, was always on “how we actually free Palestine. That was the question that guided my whole life trajectory.â€
“He's been thinking about this and doing work related to Palestine for a long time,†said Mikey Muhanna, the founder of Afikra, a global Arab media platform. When Muhanna first encountered Saint Levant, he thought here was “a good looking nerdy Palestinian kid who wasn't afraid of talking about thisâ€. Saint Levant's ability to mix western expression and Arab politics as a member of the diaspora was a “superpowerâ€, Muhanna said. “I thought, this will work on polite white girls in Kansas, and even more so, it will work for the Palestinian LSE graduate who is going to work in Deloitte, and give them a language and lane they can exist in as a Palestinian or Arab in broader western white society.â€
In the Arab world, for a younger generation, this is the first time that Palestine has become a live, painful and galvanising issue. Yet there are few avenues to freely express that distress. On the one hand, governments deliver fiery rhetoric in support of the Palestinian cause. At the same time, censorship across the Arab world has all but erased Palestine from public discussion. Frustration at the failure to come to the aid of Palestinians is so strongly felt that rulers from Morocco to the Gulf fear that it could too easily catch fire and link to other grievances in undemocratic countries whose regimes are eternally wary of protest. Arrests for protesting and even posting on social media have taken place across the region, in Saudi Arabia, Egypt and Jordan. In March 2024, about 500 people were arrested in Jordan during large protests outside the Israeli embassy. The result is a popular culture scene jarringly silent on Gaza, even as the public seethes. The sort of regular roiling popular protest and demonstration in anger at Gaza on the streets of western cities, has been entirely stamped out in Arab ones.
Against this backdrop of repression, Saint Levant provides one avenue for channelling expression about Palestine, without drawing the ire of authorities. Whatever his audience expresses can be quarantined within the theatre of performance, rather than managed by force on restive streets. He also has a licence and freedom that comes from not being embedded in one Arab country and being able to inhabit a general diasporic identity.
“He's an excellent actor,†Muhanna said, not in a derogatory way. “He totally understands aesthetic and story telling. It's really hard to do. There's a whole wave of these inside-outside diaspora kids who are commercial artists. That is what we have lacked for a long time and that I am happy we have.†In being proudly diasporic, Saint Levant crosses borders beyond the Arab street, and reflects the atomisation of those in exile, whose numbers continue to swell with every war.
Half of the 15 million Palestinians in the world live outside Palestine. The majority of them reside in Arab countries, with just over 1 million in the rest of the world. The displacement occurred in rapid waves of ethnic cleansing and slower ones of population drain. The 1948 Nakba, in which over 500 Palestinian towns and villages were destroyed and their populations evicted, resulted in the displacement of more than 700,000 Palestinians – approximately two-thirds of the Palestinian-Arab population at the time – to territories that became Israel, to the West Bank, the Gaza Strip, and to Jordan, Lebanon and Syria. During the 1967 six-day war, when Israel seized all remaining Palestinian territories, about 300,000 more were displaced into Jordan.
Since 1967, thousands of others ended up outside Palestine – deported, pushed out of homes that were demolished by the Israeli government or by the expansion of settlements and policies of residency revocation. Others fled to escape war and harsh economic conditions. The first intifada of the 80s and 90s, and the second intifada of the 00s – as well as Israeli government policies – intensified the exodus. On the 75th anniversary of the Nakba, Unrwa's commissioner-general, Philippe Lazzarini called the plight of Palestine's refugees “the longest unresolved refugee crisis in the world.â€
One of those refugees was Marwan Abdelhamid. Now known as Saint Levant.
Abdelhamid was born in 2000 in Jerusalem to a Palestinian Serbian father, and an Algerian French mother. His paternal grandfather was displaced as a child in 1948 from the town of Safad in the north of what was Mandatory Palestine, eventually making a life in Yugoslavia. After the Oslo Accords, Abdelhamid's parents decided to move to Palestine from Algeria, believing that Palestine was on a path to statehood, peace and prosperity.
Abdelhamid's father, Rashid, an architect, designed and built what became the legendary Al Deira hotel in Gaza. His ambition was “to make Gaza the new Singapore, a horizon of skyscrapers,†he said in an interview in 2012. For the first seven years of his life, Abdelhamid lived in the Al Deira hotel with his parents. Located on the shores of the Mediterranean, Al Deira was a terracotta boutique hotel of 22 rooms with high domed ceilings, all facing a courtyard in a homage to Ottoman design. It became an expression of the wider hope of Palestinian statehood that Rashid and his wife nursed when they moved to Palestine. The expectation was that Gaza, with its beachfront expanse and history as a prosperous, cosmopolitan port city, would be revived into a metropolis, and Al Deira would be the hotel for the tourists and businessmen that the new thriving Gaza would attract.
And then, five months after Al Deira opened, the second intifada erupted. The hotel became not the location for the well-heeled and upwardly mobile middle classes that would arise out of a Palestinian state, but a base for NGO staff, aid workers and war correspondents. Still, it was “swish, stylish and tightly runâ€, according to Lonely Planet, which anointed it “without question the best hotel in town†in 2007. Al Deira remained “Gaza's diamond in the rough†according to Time Magazine in 2009.
The hotel became a sanctuary from war but also neutral ground for its many interlocutors who came there to talk. When the beach by the hotel itself became deadly – four children were killed by IDF strikes while playing football on the sand in 2014 directly opposite the Al Deira terrace – the hotel was the instinctive refuge. The injured ran towards the hotel and were hoisted over its wall by staff and guests. One waiter scooped up a child with shrapnel in his belly and rushed him to the hospital in a hotel car.
But Al Deira was also a social hotspot, the meeting point for what persisted of Gaza's high life. There were ladies who lunched, wedding parties on a Friday, wine served discreetly in ceramic teacups, and shisha and lemonade on the terrace as clientele looked out over the surfers on the waves and Gaza's beach life. In the middle of it all, was little Marwan. To his parents, Al Deira was an investment in the future of a free Palestine, but to him it was simply where he lived. A home.
Now 25, Saint Levant frequently describes his time living in Al Deira with his parents as the best years of his life, roaming in what he felt was a “castleâ€, running barefoot in the sand of the beach, trying to catch fish with his bare hands, eating his meals on the terrace restaurant, playing football and spending time with his extended family. He attended the American School in Gaza, a prestigious private school. And then his family left it all behind. In 2007, the Battle of Gaza, an intense civil war between Hamas and Fatah, which culminated with Hamas taking control, was the trigger for yet another displacement for the Abdelhamids. Militants from rival factions began to threaten management with closure if rival parties were hosted, drawing the hotel into negotiations with gunmen. It was no place for a child.
The Abdelhamids fled to Jordan, and Saint Levant lived a split linguistic and cultural life – French at home, English in an American school in Amman, and Arabic in the Unrwa refugee camp Al Wehdat, where he hung out and played for the camp football team. It was a time where he did not fit in anywhere, not among the rich kids of the private school he attended – his mother's United Nations job paid for that, rather than family wealth – nor in the refugee camps where he was mocked for his imperfect Arabic.
In 2018, a little over 10 years after leaving Al Deira, 17-year-old Saint Levant moved to the US to study at the University of California. But he still nursed the dream of returning home to the terracotta building. Five years later, and two months after 7 October, the Al Deira hotel built by his father, and where Saint Levant spent the first years of his life, was destroyed by Israeli bombardment.
At university in the US, Saint Levant was expressly political. In 2020 and throughout the Covid-19 pandemic, he began posting TikTok explainers about Palestine, breaking down events, explaining how Palestinians are dehumanised and tracing the history of Israeli occupation and ethnic cleansing. During this period, he also established a startup called GrowHome, which connected Palestinians in Palestine with entrepreneurs abroad to raise investment for private enterprise.
All the while he nursed a love for music, without thinking there was a serious career in it. Between 2020 and 2022, he released several singles in classic American hip-hop style, mostly in a blend of English and French. These were angry, fairly derivative attempts to channel the disaffection of Arab and Palestinian youth into a mishmash of US and Francophone rap.
And then came the gear change, when Saint Levant landed on his voice and identity – the lover boy, in Very Few Friends, his 2022 breakout hit. From then on, his politics slipped into sub-text. In subsequent releases such as From Gaza With Love in 2023, he nodded to his origins, but remained, essentially, a flirt. Until his first album post 7 October.
Released in June 2024, the album was entitled Deira and its cover art a picture of Saint Levant walking through the terrace and into the front doors of his childhood home. In the bilingual Arabic English title track, he is back in the political. But rather than straightforward anger, the song expressed a yearning to return to the Palestine, the Gaza and the Deira he grew up in. The video is immersed in the imagery of Palestine, featuring farmers, herders, keffiyehs and Palestinian embroidery.
The following year, he released the album Love Letters, and the song Kalamantina (meaning Clementine), that established him as a mainstream star in the Middle East. A love song, with a dance-along sing-along chorus, Kalamantina was suddenly everywhere: on TikTok, sung everywhere from Gaza to New York, a staple at Arab weddings. In just over a year since its release, it has 77m streams on YouTube.
Saint Levant's output consolidated into love letters to women and Palestine, the two somehow merging into one homage. He incorporated more traditional Palestinian music and foot stomping Arab dabke beats, unmistakably Levantine rather than western pop. In one love song, the line “bliruh, bildam†– “with soul, with blood†– a chant of dedication of all that will be sacrificed for Palestine, rises at the end. His concert performances took on a wedding dancefloor sensibility, where he invited a crew to jam and dance with him on stage. His father became a regular feature of his son's performances. A sort of Lover boy Sr, a rakish Rashid would appear in his own white vest and dance with his son. The Palestinian flag and keffiyeh were raised and twirled above the audience's heads at his gigs.
As his popularity increased, he began to divide opinion. “Cringe†is how I have sometimes heard him described, like he was performing a tacky pastiche of Palestinian identity, while leaning into his pin-up appeal. In these criticisms, there was a hint of tension about class and authenticity. Despite his origins in Gaza, Saint Levant is sometimes seen as a privileged kid with the affect of the bougie diaspora Arab, distant from the hunger and killings visited on his people in Palestine.
For his fans, there is plenty of evidence that Saint Levant was always political, not someone who suddenly chose to ride a political moment once the assault on Gaza began. After 7 October, he continued to post clips detailing how language used to describe the conflict “makes it easier to justify oppression to the average personâ€. (He aspired, in this form, to emulate his idol, the Palestinian intellectual, Edward Said.) In November 2023, when accepting musician of the year from GQ France in Paris, Saint Levant said that he had been cautioned not to mention Palestine or Gaza in his acceptance speech. “But you cannot censor me,†he said, “and I cannot stay silent while 8,000 Palestinian children are being murdered by the Israeli occupation that has been going on for 75 years.â€
But walking the line between the world of GQ awards and political authenticity is tricky. Last year, when he collaborated with an Arab makeup artist to release a limited edition lip gloss, Saint Levant received a wave of criticism, including from prominent Palestinian figures such as the Pulitzer prize-winning writer Mosab Abu Toha. “Do you really care about Gaza?†wrote Abu Toha on Instagram in reply to Saint Levant's post launching the collaboration, which featured images of clementines. “You share this video when 102 people were killed today, including a cousin of mine, while seeking food?â€
In this way, social media posts about Saint Levant tend to become swirls of fandom and criticism, a cultural split that highlights a tension around what is acceptable behaviour during genocide and starvation. Saint Levant is not unique in this respect. The broader cause of Palestine has become strained by the contradictions and tensions of going mainstream. The violations in Gaza and the West Bank have been rendered in popular films such as The Voice of Hind Rajab and the Oscar-winning documentary No Other Land, resulting in jarringly glamorous red carpet appearances and glitzy ceremonies at film festivals, where, as the Palestinian writer Mohammed R Mhawish put it, audiences give “standing ovations for Palestinian painâ€.
Fans filled the outdoor arena at Saint Levant's first public concert in Doha in mid-November, snacking on sushi and taking selfies. There were hijabs and crop tops, couples and gaggles of young women, small groups of older aunties brimming with girlish excitement. The vibe was that of a high society diasporic political rally. There were Jordanians, Palestinians, Palestinian Jordanians, Lebanese, Egyptians, Sudanese and mixed heritage Arabs. And a lot of designer handbags. Every once in a while, a flurry of excitement would ripple through the crowd as a famous person was spotted. One was a belly dancer from Cairo. Another was the self-described “Shawarma King†Nasser Al-Rayess, a Syrian American social media influencer and comedian. There was a rumour that Hind Rajab's mother was in the VIP section.
Keffiyehs were everywhere. Tied around the waist like a belt. Draped around the shoulders. Folded and tied around heads like a durag. Along with it, the map of Palestine, rendered in stickers on phone covers and dangling as a pendant on necklaces. On a large screen there glowed a trippy cartoon graphic that paid homage to Palestinian and Arab iconography, watermelons, the khamsa, go karting at the pyramids, a traditional jug pouring out coffee.
Iraqi Canadian rapper Narcy acted as a compere, appearing between acts to hype up the crowd and re-state what they all shared: Arabness. “I am originally from the wonderful nation of Iraq,†he said, to cheers, and one “Allahu Akbar†from the audience. “As Arabs,†he said, “the beating heart of our culture is Palestine.†He introduced the Saudi-born, UK-based DJ Nooriyah, who played Arabic and western hits spliced together. “Show me your keffiyeh,†she urged the crowd.
By the time Saint Levant came on stage just after 10pm, excitement was peaking. When the curtains rose and the crowd screamed, I felt a surge of unease for him, something like maternal protectiveness over this child who had summoned all of these forces around him, negative and positive. This young man who had found himself in a moment of huge frustration and angst over Palestine, and was standing in the breach.
“My name is Marwan Abdelhamid,†he said. “Born in Jerusalem, raised in Gaza. Left it at seven and haven't been back since. This is the story of so many Palestinians.†He sounded a little nervous, but it soon dissipated. On stage, he marshalled that same mischievous energy that runs through everything from his social media clips to his music videos. In between songs, he addressed the crowd, bringing it back to the fraught political moment, to Gaza. Often, he told them, he would be told: “Shhh, don't talk about Palestine.†Often, he admitted, he asked himself how he could be singing and dancing when his people were dying. But joy in our culture was our right, he said.
What Saint Levant was offering was permission. He gave himself permission and in turn gave it to his listeners – this was not abdication. Not distraction and decadence in the midst of war and genocide. It was a rejection of the dehumanisation of Arabs and the contempt for their culture and expression on the part of Israel and its western supporters who had privileged Israel's narrative over that of its victims. A people who not in spite of war, but because of it, assert their right to a full existence. His music was good enough, but his greatest appeal was that insistence on translating the moment into something that did not need to be worn so heavily.
Saint Levant's father appeared for a DJ set in the middle of the concert, with his son beside him, two generations of displaced Palestinian and the descendants of a third. The father began his session with a few bars from a famous song, released in 2000 in response to the second intifada, by the legendary and controversial Egyptian street folk artist Shaaban Abdel Rahim. The crowd instantly knew what it was. There was a brief moment of stunned incredulity that it was happening. And then, an eruption of singing along. “I hate Israel / And I'll say it if they ask me / Even if they murder me or put me in jail / I hate Israel.â€
At the end of the snippet, Saint Levant's father looked at the crowd and shrugged comedically, as if to say: “Yes, I went there.†The father and son went on to dance together to several Arab and Palestinian songs, their brief sharp political interlude merging with hits about girls in short skirts and high heels, inviting the crowd to be part of a private party. I looked at those around me, now in peak concert revelry. There was no escaping the Palestine-themed fancy dress element of it all. Had a colossal political crisis become reduced to a trend, a fashion? Was this party an insistence on not succumbing to doom, or an excuse to embrace oblivion?
I wasn't sure. I am still not sure. But when Saint Levant concluded his concert by saying “For Palestine, for Algeria, for Sudan,†I thought, whatever the answers are to these questions, what undergirded the experience was a real person, a real life of loss and displacement, an existence whose protagonists for too long had not been given permission to narrate, and do with their story what they wish. Let the culture expand into something capacious and diverse and alive, I felt, defying all the ways it had literally been burned to the ground. But standing outside in the quiet street, alone after the crowd seemed to disperse far too quickly, a wave of desolation crashed over me. The world was still what it was. The question still remained. How to live alongside the dead?
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