Updated December 26, 2024 at 13:02 PM ET
WASHINGTON, D.C. — The 9:30 Club in Washington, D.C., is known for its eclectic concerts, but it's rare to see the venue draped in Palestinian flags and keffiyehs. The artist Saint Levant performed to a sold-out crowd in a night of celebration and reflection on Gaza.
Marwan Abdelhamid, who performs as Saint Levant, is a 24-year-old musician blending North African and Arab influences with rock, hip-hop, and R&B. Born in Jerusalem and partly raised in Gaza, he has a French-Algerian mother and a Palestinian-Serbian father. This year, he performed at Coachella as one of the few mainstream U.S. artists who references the war in Gaza.
Saint Levant's journey reflects what it means to create music and represent a Palestinian identity on a global stage while facing the direct outcome of war from far away and the public expectations that come with it. Before 2022, his music was mostly political, rapping about his life dealing with checkpoints and military occupation in Jerusalem, the West Bank, and Gaza. Back then, he was more of a social media personality performing in sweaty basements. Later, he shifted to more personal themes of him falling in and out of love. His song "Very Few Friends" in 2022 went very viral on TikTok and got millions of streams on Spotify. This transition matched his new image, making him a 2023 Dior's new fragrance ambassador and one of GQ's Men of the Year. Now with the ongoing war in Gaza, he's grappling with destruction while creating new music.
Last week, Abdelhamid finished a U.S. tour of his latest album, Deira, named after an iconic hotel his father built on Gaza's seashore in the 1990s.
Now based in California, the young musician's lyrics in French, English and Arabic give his work crossover appeal. "I think he's very cute. He's hot. He's also a young man from Gaza who's vocal about his principles," said concertgoer Dima Alkakan.
Danny Hajjar, a music journalist focused on diaspora artists, described Abdelhamid's latest album and D.C. tour as a moment of growth. "Since the war started, it seems like he's found a balance between his role as an artist who grew up in Gaza with a massive platform and his persona as a loverboy who's seen as sexy," Hajjar said.
The songs that he played on the tour reminded me of the international mixes that played in the hotel's dining hall. I grew up in Gaza and lived near this distinct reddish-colored hotel with its 22 rooms made of mud, each featuring a different tile design that is handmade. It was one of the rare hubs for both locals and foreigners. It was a refuge from Gaza's hardships—a place to relax, smoke hookah, enjoy the seafood and the Mediterranean beach view.
"You know, when you dream and revisit places from your childhood, it's always Deira for me. Always," Abdelhamid said. "For me, it's like, oh my god, it's a castle. But it's really not. And I know there weren't that many rooms either. It was kind of, in a way, a boutique hotel," he added, pausing to ask if I agreed with his memory—or his description—since he left Gaza when he was just 7 years old.
While Abdelhamid's question to me carries an artistic nostalgia, mine is tied to covering the 2014 war and reflecting on how international coverage of Gaza has evolved since. Al Deira, one of only a few hotels in Gaza City, was the base for many journalists covering conflicts, including the tragic killing of four children by an Israeli strike—a scene that was witnessed by foreign journalists from the hotel's seafront-terrace, just yards away. Since the start of this war, foreign journalists have been barred from entering Gaza unless they consent to a limited and highly restrictive tour conducted by Israel's military.
Abdelhamid began working on his album before the war, which began after the Hamas-led Oct. 7 attack on Israel that killed about 1,200 people, according to authorities there.
Israel's military has killed more than 45,000 Palestinians, according to Gaza's officials.
The U.N. says Israel's war has displaced the majority of the population. It also destroyed or damaged most of Gaza's buildings and landmarks.
The Al Deira hotel was one of them.
"Deira was bombed in November of 2023. The terracotta colors are still there, but the inside is all bombed. This is the reality of being Palestinian, specifically from Gaza. You see things that you love get destroyed," Abdelhamid said.
What started as a nostalgic project became a meditation on ruins and the foundation for his album.
Here is an extended version of our backstage interview with Saint Levant.
This interview has been slightly edited for clarity and length.
On the process of writing his song "Deira," inspired by the hotel his father built in Gaza that was later destroyed:
Saint Levant: The song was inspired by Algerian chaâbi music, specifically an artist called Dahmane El Harrachi. But I wanted to put my own twist on it. That comes from my relationship with both Algeria and Palestine—so for me, the sound draws from Algeria, while the lyrics are inspired by Palestinian culture and dialect. My heritage is a bit unique. I'd say I'm like a cocktail: my mom is French and Algerian, and my dad is Palestinian and Serbian. So I'm 1/4 of each. I was born in Jerusalem, raised in Gaza, and went to an American school. I speak Arabic with my friends, French at home, and English in America. Take all of that, put it into one person, bring them into the studio, and you get something like "Deira."
On how he transformed nostalgia, which had turned into ruins, into a new project:
SL: After the hotel's destruction, I see my songs and performance as a statement to the world: we are human. My song "Deira" captures the joys and sorrows of being Palestinian. Our identity is complex—we're not just political symbols or a stereotype of Arabs with little red hats. During the war in Gaza, I had friends calling me to talk about breaking up with their partners.
The concept of the album is a journey back to Gaza. We will return and rebuild. When I performed at Coachella, I explained the concept of this album. "Deira," you know, looks like a hotel but it's me and my dad walking into the hotel to do a performance. Right now, it's science fiction in a way, but I'm very inspired by Afrofuturism. Afrofuturism was a response to institutional racism. Science fiction has always been told through a white lens, and I like to use science fiction to imagine this return to Deira to do a concert in a liberated Palestine. That's the concept for me: Deira is rebuilt, and it's the opening. We are living in a liberated Palestine, and our kids are running around in the sand, trying to catch fish with their bare hands—just like I used to do when I was a kid.
On his growing fan base in the U.S:
SL: A year and a half ago, we were doing shows for 150-200 people in sweaty basements—it was just me and my guy, Henry. Now we're doing 3,000 people in New York with full tech rehearsals, lighting, sound engineers, and a whole team. It's been such a crazy transition, and I've been catching up with it while pushing myself harder. I'm never satisfied—it drives me to grow, but also keeps me looking ahead. Even now, with 2,000-3,000 people shows, I'm already thinking about the next phase: 5,000 to 7,000. My mom reminds me to be present, so I try to pause and take it in, but it's been a wild ride.
On being a loverboy after his breakout song "Very Few Friends":
SL: I think I just made a song with a deep voice over an R&B beat, talking about a lady, and people were like, "Oh, this is it." I don't like to label myself, but yeah, I am a loverboy. I love deeply—not just romantically but also my friends, family, and craft. Everything I do comes from the heart, and I think people connect with that because they see I'm emotional and not afraid to step outside the box of what an Arab guy is "supposed" to do. That's from my dad—he never cared what people thought and was into all kinds of random things. I'm curious, eclectic even. That's the right word, right? Eclectic?
On how the war changed his approach to music:
SL: As Palestinian artists, we've all been deeply affected by what has been happening in Gaza over the past year. Because at the end of the day, it is a bit tough to continue to make art, and while your brothers and sisters are suffering and are being displaced, and they're living in tents, and you're calling them, and they have no internet, and you're scared. All Palestinians everywhere have been affected by this kind of survivor's guilt, in a way. But my mom always tells me that my existence is resistance. For me, continuing to show up every day is more important now than ever. As an artist, I want to be careful, and I want to be sensitive. But for me, this war has only reaffirmed that our voice needs to be louder than ever. I believe the world is waking up to the atrocities that the Israeli occupation has been committing—not just since October 7, but over the past 75 years. People are just beginning to understand, and I truly believe a shift in the status quo is coming. Art is a part of that shift, and I think we are witnessing the birth of this new generation's movement. At the same time, my music is super personal but as a Palestinian, my very existence is political, so I can't help that—but it's really just whatever is on my mind that day. I can make a song about anything I want. I've never put any limits on myself. That comes from my dad, who always told me: never put a limit on yourself. Do whatever you want to do, and if you make a mistake, say sorry and keep working.
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