Category Archives: Essay

Tunisia’s rap revolution: 5 women who are redefining hip-hop

A female rapper performing outdoors at night, wearing a purple top and camouflage pants, with urban scenery in the background.
Snapshot from Medusa’s music video for the song ‘Harissa‘.

Jyhene Kebsi, Macquarie University

Women rappers were not really a feature of Tunisia’s typically masculine and chauvinist hip-hop scene until the revolution that overthrew Zine al-Abidine Ben Ali in 2011.

Now there are several politically conscious female voices rising in the rap scene. Gender studies scholar Jyhene Kebsi has published a research paper on how their lyrics highlight the multiple inequalities that women in Tunisia – and the world – must overcome.


How have male Tunisian rappers generally treated women in their songs and videos?

The gender politics of Tunisian men’s rap is complex, but we can talk about one of its tendencies. Although there are men who’ve supported their female colleagues and collaborated with them on songs, their portrayals tend to lump women into one of two groups: virtuous or promiscuous; madonnas or whores.

This is clear in their use of obscene words that aim to degrade the “fallen” women they rap about. Their sexual references can be seen as a way to debase the “easy girls and immoral women” who challenge patriarchal norms.

This is in sharp contrast to the love and indebtedness they express towards their mothers and sisters. In contrast to western rap, the mother figure is central in Tunisian rap.

The sacredness of the mother in Tunisian Muslim culture is seen in songs full of gratitude towards those who brought them into the world.

Their reliance on this male-centred division between “respectable” and “unrespectable” women spreads a toxic masculinity that supports harmful gender stereotypes.

This strengthens men’s social dominance and their policing of women’s bodies. Having said that, it is very important to highlight that sexism is not limited to the Arab rap scene. As I explain in my paper, many western male rappers objectify, humiliate and degrade women in their songs too.

Who are the four female rappers you discuss?

The four Tunisian women rappers I analyse are Sabrina, Medusa, Queen Nesrine and Tuny Girl.

There’s a common perception that Medusa was Tunisia’s first female rapper. In reality, Sabrina began performing rap in 2007 and Tunisia’s other female artists joined the rap scene after the 2011 revolution.

Medusa is Tunisia’s most famous female rapper in the west – her migration to France boosted her international profile. Although Tuny Girl and Queen Nesrine have not gained the fame of Medusa or Sabrina, they’ve released powerful feminist songs that criticise the status quo in post-revolutionary Tunisia.

These artists have mainly relied on digital media to share their songs with the public through social platforms like YouTube and Facebook. Unfortunately, all four of them have faced opposition because they’re women.

Rap is considered a masculine musical genre. Tunisian women’s initial entry into this male-dominated world was not easily accepted. Attitudes towards female rappers have evolved thanks to women’s gradual success in attracting a larger fan base.

But these four artists share a strong resistance to sexism. Most importantly, while being aware of patriarchal pressures, they’re conscious of the many different forms of oppression that intersect to keep women less equal than men.

This is evident in their songs, which reflect a strong awareness of intersectionality.

What is intersesectionality?

The black US feminist Kimberle Crenshaw coined the term “intersectionality” in 1989 to describe the double discrimination of sexism and racism faced by black women. So, she used the term to discuss the multiple forms of inequality that compound themselves and create interlocking obstacles that shape black women’s experiences of discrimination.

Intersectionality highlights the experiences of multiple forms of discrimination when these categories of social identity interact with and shape one another.

We see an understanding of intersectionality in a song like Hold On, where Medusa raps about illiteracy, political struggle and motherhood:

I am watching the floating misery / Illiteracy has spread and made us go from one extreme to the other / Where is the freedom for which activists struggled? / I am the free Tunisian who exposed their chest to bullets / I am the mother, the mother of the martyr who has not gotten his revenge.

Or, in her song Arahdli, Sabrina raps about a range of social ills:

Leave me alone / The police catch you and harm you / Don’t believe the corrupt state / Unemployment and poverty will not make you happy.

I found that what Medusa, Sabrina, Queen Nesrine and Tuny Girl have in common is their rejection of, as Crenshaw puts it, the “single-axis framework”. The one-sided narrative that reduces women’s problems solely to men and patriarchy.

Instead, these artists highlight the damaging impact – for women – of the intersection of gender inequality, political corruption, unjust laws, ineffective local policies, the collapse of Tunisia’s economy and the country’s weak position in the global geopolitical landscape.

Their songs are united in their recognition that Tunisian women’s lives are shaped by all these overlapping power structures, exposing them to marginalisation and discrimination.

So, their songs identify hidden, interrelated structural barriers to their freedom. Misogyny is just one element that needs to be considered alongside other local and global issues when we discuss gender politics in Tunisia.

What other new trends are female rappers ushering in?

Women are at the forefront of innovation in Tunisian rap. Take Lully Snake. She’s a Tunisian-Algerian rapper based in Tunisia. This 24-year-old artist was previously a breakdancer. Her passion for hip-hop culture and her love for US artists like Tupac, Kool G Rap, Queen Latifah and Foxy Brown led her to start rapping.

Like all Tunisian women rappers, she considers her entry into rap to have been a long and difficult journey. Starting in 2019, her first song was only released in 2024.

Lully Snake first uploaded her debut song Zabatna Kida on Instagram. Its uniqueness lies in its combination of rap and mahraganat, an Egyptian street music that emerged in Cairo’s ghettos. Its success encouraged her to carry on rapping in both Tunisian and Egyptian, alongside other western languages and Maghrebi dialects.

Lully Snake’s experimentation proves that female rappers are innovating while spreading messages that empower women. This has ultimately enriched Tunisian rap.

Jyhene Kebsi, Director of Learning & Teaching (Gender Studies), Macquarie University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The troubling relevance of Woody Guthrie’s new album, released 58 years after his death

Daniele Curci, Università di Siena

Mural of Woody Guthrie with the text 'THIS LAND IS YOUR LAND' on a brick wall, depicting the influential folk artist playing guitar against a backdrop of trees and cloudy sky.
Woody Guthrie Center in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Photo by Gorup de Besanez and licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International license.

A new album by Woody Guthrie (1912–1967), perhaps the most influential US folk artist, was released late last summer. Woody at Home, Vol. 1 & 2 contains songs – some already known, others previously unreleased – the artist recorded from 1951 to 1952 on a tape recorder he received from his publisher. A version of the famous “This Land Is Your Land” (1940), with new verses, is among the tracks.

The release reflects the continuing vitality of Woody Guthrie in the United States. There is an ongoing process of updating and redefining his figure and artistic legacy – one that does not always take into account the singer’s radicalism but sometimes accentuates his patriotism.

The story of “This Land Is Your Land” is a case in point. There are versions of the song containing verses critical of private property, and others without them. The first version of “This Land” became almost an unofficial anthem of the US and, over the years, has been used in various political contexts, sometimes resulting in appropriations and reinterpretations. In 1960, it was played at the Republican national convention that nominated Richard Nixon for president, and in 1988, Republican candidate George H. W. Bush used it in his presidential campaign.

However, Guthrie made his contribution by supporting both the Communist Party and, at different times, president Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s New Deal. He borrowed the idea that music could be an important tool of activism from the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW) union. In the party, Guthrie saw the ideological cement; in the union, the instrument of mass organization. It was only through union – a term with a double meaning that Guthrie often played upon: union as both labour union and union of the oppressed – that a socialized and unionized world could be achieved.

‘Deportee’

The release of Woody at Home, Vol. 1 & 2 was preceded by the single “Deportee (Plane Wreck at Los Gatos),” a song that had long been known, but whose original recording by Guthrie had never been released. The artist wrote it in reference to an event that occurred on January 28, 1948, when a plane carrying Mexican seasonal workers crashed in Los Gatos Canyon, California, killing everyone on board.

This choice was not accidental, as explained by Nora Guthrie – one of the folk singer’s daughters and long-time curator of her father’s political and artistic legacy – in an interview with The Guardian, where she emphasized how his message remains current, given the deportations carried out by the President Donald Trump’s administration.

Woody Guthrie read the account of the tragic plane crash in a newspaper, and was horrified to find that the workers were not referred to by name, but by the pejorative term “deportees”. In their story, he saw parallels with the experiences of the 1930s “Okies” from the state of Oklahoma, impoverished by dust storms and years of socioeconomic crisis, who moved to California in search of a better future. It was a “Goin’ Down The Road,” according to the title of another Guthrie song, in which the word “down” also conveyed the sadness of having to hit the road, with all the uncertainties and hardships that lay ahead, because there was no alternative – indeed, the full title ended with “Feeling Bad”.

The Okies and the Mexican migrant workers faced racism and poverty amid the abundance of the fruit fields. Mexicans found themselves picking fruit that was rotting on the trees – “the crops are all in and the peaches are rotting” – for wages that barely allowed them to survive – “to pay all their money to wade back again”. In “Deportee,” in which these two lyrics appear, Guthrie provocatively asked:

Is this the best way we can grow our big orchards?
Is this the best way we can grow our good fruit?
To fall like dry leaves to rot on my topsoil
And be called by no name except “deportees”?

Visions of America and radicalism

“We come with the dust and we go with the wind,” sang Guthrie in “Pastures of Plenty” (1941, and also included in Woody at Home), the anthem he wrote for the migrants of the US southwest, denouncing the indifference and invisibility that enabled the exploitation of workers. In this way, Guthrie measured the gap separating the US’s reality from the fulfillment of its promises and aspirations. For him, tragedies were also a collective issue that allowed him to denounce the way in which a minority (the wealthy capitalists) deprived the majority (the workers) of their rights and well-being.

A somber black and white photograph of a distressed woman with a pensive expression, seated with two children partially visible behind her, conveying themes of hardship and resilience.
This famous photograph taken by photographer Dorothea Lange in California in 1936, titled Migrant Mother, shows Florence Thompson, aged 32, then mother of seven children, who was originally from Oklahoma and had come to the Golden State in search of work. Dorothea Lange/Library of Congress

The artist’s political vision owed much to the fact that he grew up in Oklahoma in the 1920s and 1930s, where the influence of Jeffersonian agrarian populism – the vision of an agrarian republic inspired by president Thomas Jefferson, based on the equitable distribution of land among citizens – remained deeply rooted. It is within this framework that Guthrie’s radicalism, which took shape in the 1930s and 1940s, must be situated. These periods were marked by intense debate over the health of US democracy, when Roosevelt’s New Deal sought to address years of economic crisis and profound social change.

Against racial discrimination

Guthrie’s activism sought to overcome racial discrimination. This was no small feat for the son of a man said to have been a member of the Ku Klux Klan and a fervent anti-communist, who may have taken part in a lynching in 1911.

Moreover, Woody himself, upon arriving in California in the latter half of the 1930s, carried with him a racist legacy reflected in certain songs – such as his performance of the racist version of “Run, Nigger, Run”, a popular song in the South, which he sang on his own radio show in 1937. Afterward, the artist received a letter from a Black listener expressing her deep resentment over the singer’s use of the word “nigger”. Guthrie was so moved that he read the letter on the air and apologized.

He then began a process of questioning himself and what he believed the United States to be, going so far as to denounce segregation and the distortions of the judicial system that protected white people while readily imprisoning Black people. These themes appear in “Buoy Bells from Trenton”, also included in Woody at Home. The song refers to the case of the Trenton Six: in 1948, six Black men from Trenton, New Jersey were convicted of murdering a white man by an all-white jury, despite the testimony of several witnesses who had seen other individuals at the scene of the crime.

“Buoy Bells from Trenton” was probably included on the album because of the interpretation it invites concerning abuses of power and the “New Jim Crow”, an expression that echoes the Jim Crow laws (late 19th century to 1965) that imposed racial segregation in the Southern states. These laws were legitimized by the Supreme Court ruling Plessy v. Ferguson (1896), which established the principle of “separate but equal”, before being abolished by Brown v. Board of Education (1954), the Civil Rights Act (1964) and the Voting Rights Act (1965). Popularized by Michelle Alexander in her book, The New Jim Crow (2010), the contemporary term refers to the system of racial control through penal policies and mass incarceration: in 2022, African Americans made up 32% of convicted state and federal prisoners, even though they represent only 12% of the US population, a figure highlighted by several recent studies.

Guthrie’s song can thus be reread as a critique of persistent racism, both in its institutional forms and in its more diffuse manifestations. Once again, this is an example of the enduring vitality of Woody Guthrie and of how art does not end at the moment of its publication, but becomes a long-term historical phenomenon.


Daniele Curci, PhD Candidate in International and American History, Università di Siena

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Kneecap’s stance on Gaza extends a long history of the Irish supporting other oppressed peoples

Ciara Smart, University of Tasmania

Love them or hate them, there’s no doubt Irish hip-hop trio Kneecap are having a moment.

Their music – delivered in a powerful fusion of English and Irish – is known for its gritty lyrics about party drugs and working-class life in post-Troubles Ireland. More recently, the group has made headlines for its outspoken support for the Palestinian people.

British police have charged member Liam Óg Ó hAnnaidh (known by his stage name Mo Chara) with a terrorism offence. Ó hAnnaidh was charged in May, after being accused of displaying a Hezbollah flag at a London concert in November.

But this isn’t the first time an Irish republican group has courted controversy for backing other oppressed peoples. This has been happening for almost two centuries.

Unsanitised and vocal support

Ireland is composed of 32 counties. Twenty-six are in the Republic of Ireland, while six are part of the United Kingdom in Northern Ireland. When the British government withdrew from most of Ireland in 1921, the Irish Free State was largely Catholic, while Northern Ireland was more heavily Protestant. But these divisions are becoming increasingly irrelevant.

While Ireland is still split across two nations, public support for Irish unity remains strong, particularly among citizens of the Republic.

Kneecap’s members are from Belfast, the capital of Northern Ireland. They are also fierce republicans, which means they want to see Ireland united as one nation. One of their most popular songs, Get Your Brits Out, calls for the British state’s withdrawal from Northern Ireland.

The group has experienced a meteoric rise in recent years, helped by a semi-autobiographical film released last year.

They have reclaimed the term “Fenian”, often used as an anti-Irish slur. Their decision to rap in Irish is also a cultural milestone, as the language was suppressed in Northern Ireland for most of the 20th century, only achieving official language status in 2022.

Despite being undeniable provocateurs, they claim they aren’t interested in reigniting Catholic-Protestant conflict. They celebrate the similarities between both groups, rather than highlight their differences.

Ó hAnnaidh’s alleged terrorism offence came after he waved a Hezbollah flag at a London gig and chanted “Up Hamas, up Hezbollah”. Both Hamas and Hezbollah are considered terrorist groups in Britain. He will face court on August 20.

Irish-Māori solidarity

Kneecap is carrying on a long tradition of Irish groups who faced controversy for denouncing the oppressive acts of powerful states.

In the 19th century, several Irish nationalist groups expressed solidarity with other colonised peoples, especially Māori in Aotearoa New Zealand. Groups such as the Irish Republican Brotherhood (whose members were called Fenians) arguably saw Māori and Irish as co-victims of a tyrannical state.

Irish nationalist newspapers often wrote sympathetically about the colonisation of New Zealand, and tried to inspire Ireland to resist British subjugation, like Māori seemed to be doing.

A historical depiction of a violent skirmish in a dense forest, showing soldiers in conflict with Māori warriors. The scene captures intense action, with soldiers producing weapons and Māori fighters in a defensive stance amidst foliage.
This painting by Kennett Watkins, The Death of Von Tempsky at Te Ngutu o Te Manu (circa 1893), portrays conflict in 1868 between armed constabulary and Māori forces. Wikimedia

In July 1864, the Fenian newspaper The Irish People stressed British hypocrisy. It wrote, “savages we call [Māori], using the arrogant language of civilisation, but, honestly, they deserve to be characterised by a much better word”.

It also scoffed at the “unconquerable propensity of the Anglo-Saxon to plunder the lands of other people – a propensity which manifests itself most strikingly alike in Ireland and New Zealand”.

Similarly, in December 1868, the nationalist newspaper The Nation contrasted “valiant” Māori with “terrified” British. It sarcastically described Māori as “rebels (men fighting for their own rights on their own soil)” and mocked the British forces as “valiant men who could bully a priest”.

The article finished on a sombre note: “Mere valour will in the end go down before the force of numbers and the cunning of diplomacy”.

Rumours of a secret rebellion

Other Irish leaders, such as the nationalist Michael Davitt, saw inspirational parallels between the nonviolent campaign of Charles Stewart Parnell, the 19th century leader of the Irish Home Rule movement, and Māori leader Te Whiti-o-Rongomai.

In Ireland, Parnell encouraged poor tenant farmers to pause rent payments to their British landlords. In New Zealand, Te Whiti encouraged Māori to dismantle colonially-constructed fences and plough the land for themselves. Both were arrested in 1881 within three weeks of each other.

A historical poster advocating for tenant farmers to refuse rent payments during the Land War in Ireland, emphasizing solidarity and resistance against landlords.
The ‘No Rent Manifesto’ was issued on 18 October 1881, by Parnell and others of the Irish National Land League while in Kilmainham Jail. National Library of Ireland

So strong was the sense of kinship between Irish and Māori that, in the 1860s, there were persistent rumours of a joint Irish-Māori rebellion reported in the media and even New Zealand’s parliament.

In March, 1869, the conservative New Zealand newspaper Daily Southern Cross reported a large number of Māori “have decided on joining the Fenian Brotherhood, and have adopted the green flag as their national emblem”.

Later that year, the paper reported the supposed Fenians told a Māori resistance group that, “like the Maori, they hate the British rule, and are prepared to make common cause […] to overthrow that rule in New Zealand”.

However, these rumours were probably no more than a conspiracy fuelled by racist anti-Irish paranoia.

Actions and outcomes

Any tangible results of cross-cultural sympathy from 19th century Irish nationalists were mixed, at best. My ongoing research shows solidarity with Māori was partly motivated by humanitarian motives, but was also often used to make a point about Ireland.

Identifying with another oppressed peoples within the context of a corrupt empire was a powerful way to argue for improved political recognition within Ireland. Irish nationalists generally didn’t do much other than declare their sympathy.

Kneecap, on the other hand, seems willing to bear the legal and financial consequences of being vocal about human rights abuses in Gaza. Some of their shows have been cancelled, and funding providers have withdrawn.

While curated rebellion can be lucrative in show-business, Kneecap says the controversy following them is a distraction. They insist the world should focus squarely on Gaza instead.

Ciara Smart, PhD Graduand in History, University of Tasmania

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

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