With John Lennon as Muse, Palestinian Rapper Tamer Nafar Tells Stories of Past and Future

In Amsterdam, Tamer Nafar has already showcased his talents in seven European cities — including Birkenhead, London, Berlin, Hamburg, Paris, and Brussels — by the time of our discussion. Currently on tour with his inaugural solo album, In the Name of the Father, the Imam and John Lennon, Nafar, who is also a founding member of the influential Palestinian collective DAM, is dedicated to refining his setlist to effectively convey his artistic message.

Language and the arts have been pivotal themes throughout Nafar's career. He has navigated music, acting, screenwriting, and activism while being fluent in Arabic, Hebrew, and English. As we delve into our conversation, he emphasizes the importance of word placement and narrative sequencing.

"Last night, I think we got it right. I think we nailed it," he reflects, gesturing to his bandmates. "That sequencing of the story—deciding which song follows which—is crucial. We strive to get it right, to experiment, to narrate our story."

Through this album, Nafar's extensive journey through hip-hop, identity, and activism comes to a head. In the Name of the Father, the Imam & John Lennon represents years of effort, driven by both personal and political urgency.

Nafar was raised in Lydda, a mixed Palestinian-Jewish city near Tel Aviv, immersed in an environment marked by neglect, poverty, and violence. His surroundings spurred his keen observational skills, simultaneously enhancing his writing. As teenagers in his neighborhood tackled one of the largest drug markets in Israel, often facing a police presence that was as precarious as it was inconsistent, Nafar found refuge in hip-hop. The struggles depicted in Tupac's music resonated deeply with him, prompting him to translate lyrics and ultimately articulate his own narrative.

“This was in '98. I sought out producers, but it was predominantly wedding producers. Beats weren't as accessible as they are today, making it incredibly challenging to create hip-hop music,” Nafar recounted during a previous interview.

By the late 1990s, Nafar had emerged as a pioneering Palestinian rapper, creating a sound that was relatively novel in the Middle Eastern music scene. Alongside his brother, Suhel Nafar, and friend, Mahmood Jreri, he co-founded DAM, a group that would become synonymous with Arabic hip-hop.

Their breakout single, "Min Irhabi" — 'Who's the Terrorist?' — gained remarkable traction after being featured in Rolling Stone France, accruing over a million downloads and earning accolades from Le Monde as the anthem of a generation. Years of trial and error culminated in the album Ihda (Dedication), which encapsulated the daily experiences relatable to Palestinians living within the 48 territories. These narratives drew from news, the poetry of Palestinian youth, the speeches of Gamal Abdel Nasser, and dialogues from Egyptian comedic classics, all layered into the music.

Now, decades into his career, Nafar's vision transcends linguistic and geographic limitations. In "The Beat Never Goes Off," the album opener, he underscores what the formidable border wall aims to conceal. By transforming the stark image of the wall into a source of revelation, the face of twelve-year-old MC Abdul, a promising rapper from Gaza, appears on screen. Now 17, Abdul's defiant voice transcends borders and bureaucratic obstacles that separate them.

The visual representation momentarily bridges the gap between them, highlighting that the true distance is not physical but created by systems designed to disconnect neighbors. For Nafar of Lydda, Abdul of Gaza, and Noel Kharman of Haifa — whose powerful vocals enhance the track’s weight — their unified message resonates: they refuse to be categorized as strangers.

"I collaborated with Sammy Shiblaq, who is currently in the U.S. Meanwhile, there’s MC Abdul, whom I’ve never met, and I find that hard to comprehend. There’s a wall separating us.”

As he embarks on his first European tour, slated to return to the U.K. in July, Nafar emphasizes the importance of visibility: if the world is to experience and engage with his art, it must confront the harsh realities that inform it. His album expertly weaves personal introspection with sociopolitical critique, a skill nurtured over years against the backdrop of censorship, targeted cancellations, and the pressures faced by Palestinian citizens in Israel, who often navigate a second-class status despite holding citizenship.

In songs such as "Go There," he addresses the escalating Arab crime and systemic neglect, while "NaNa" showcases his lyrical prowess across Arabic and English, sampling the traditional Palestinian song "nana ya nana" in collaboration with Palestinian-American rapper Sammy Shiblaq. While there's much discussion about merging the global with the local, Nafar's triumph lies in prioritizing authenticity and the undeniable drive to share his truth.

In reflecting on how this creative process differs from his previous musical endeavors, he explains, "This is my first solo album, and the process is entirely distinct because it's fragmented. With DAM, we established a timeline and adhered to a schedule, following a structured approach for each song and its composition. However, this album was shaped amidst various interruptions, the pandemic, and ongoing crisis."

In the Name of the Father, the Imam and John Lennon emerges as a solo project constructed from interruptions and fragmented contributions, a stark contrast to the cohesive rhythm that fueled DAM's ascent. "I was missing songs and had to recreate many," he shares. "At times, I lacked clearance for samples and had to take pieces and attempt to integrate them all."

Lines, Surveillance, and Poetry

"Write My Life With a Pencil" serves as a verbal rebellion, resisting the constraints imposed upon him by racism, surveillance, classism, and cultural stereotypes. Throughout the track, he skillfully employs "lines" in multiple contexts: from pop-culture references ("keep it hotline bling like Drake's line") to the aesthetic lines he crafts and reshapes, ultimately revealing how the bureaucratic lines restrict his movement and identity.

Drawing from personal experience, Nafar has encountered the humiliating racial scrutiny that often accompanies international travel. By deconstructing these experiences into lines that are humorous, poetic, and serious, he exposes how they coalesce into a system designed to confine him, subsequently redefining them on his terms: "Erase the airlines, bunch of fucking racists…all I have is rhymes up in my bag; if you’re looking for bombs, check your planes before they fly to Syria or Iraq."

"I wrote this song seven years ago," he notes, emphasizing the enduring nature of the violence that has persisted for years under Israeli rule. Tragically, many headlines that circulate today could have easily originated from the context in which this song was first created; little has changed since then.

Nafar's avoidance of abstract critique leaves a lasting impression. In life and music, he dismisses the superficiality of Western culture while engaging with decolonial politics. His inclination is to celebrate and elevate the talents of his community. When discussing "The Way I Love Me," a collaboration with San Francisco rapper and entrepreneur Stunnaman02 — which serves as a powerful affirmation of self-love that challenges stereotypes — he emphasizes a focus on positivity rather than reactionary commentary.

"I stopped paying attention to that narrative. Born in a society that portrays us as terrorists, I find their dehumanizing efforts irrelevant. We create music to humanize Palestinians. How the world depicts us is not my responsibility; they should focus on creating art that humanizes themselves." He adds, "I’m a human being, and my people have faced massacres. I extend love and care to everyone. I recognize my humanity and value. I am human. My people are human."

His priorities lie elsewhere. When asked whether it frustrates him that many treat the crisis as a recent phenomenon since 7 October, he avoids dwelling on the issue. For him, the fragmentation of the struggle feels insignificant compared to the overwhelming scale of loss. What he perceives is an ongoing crisis. His debut solo project unfolds like a singular entity navigating tumultuous waters, continually reconstructing itself amid personal and global upheavals.

"I simply want to embrace my people. I wish to offer them comfort. I am mourning. I have lost more than 70,000 loved ones. Those whom I cared for. Gone."

In the wake of extensive ceasefire violations, the situation remains overwhelming. Violence takes on debilitating forms that exacerbate the plight that began two years ago in Gaza. Today, many families find themselves displaced, enduring the harsh reality of life in tents as they survive through the cold winter months.

Fathers, Faith, and the Conversations Left Unsaid

The title of the album alludes to Nafar's personal history. His car journeys through Palestine alongside his late father were accompanied by both Qur'an recitations and Beatles records. These car rides enriched Nafar's worldview and inspired his writing. Yet, the album serves not only as a tribute but also as a declaration of his existence, resilience, and artistic liberty amid systemic oppression and negligent global apathy.

"In this track, I’m reflecting on my father, a deeply conservative individual. He traveled to Mecca, prayed on Fridays, and then took us to perform at a hip-hop club right afterward. The communication gap that existed between us was often frustrating during those drives to the show. Through this album, I was granted an incredible opportunity to engage in conversation with him. He only owned two CDs, the Quran and the Beatles. I utilized this as a creative outlet to initiate our dialogue." He recalls debating which artists might surpass The Beatles in talent — whether it’s Lennon or McCartney — even introducing his father to the hip-hop artists dominating his playlists.

He begins to contemplate which artists he might select over his father's hypothetical favorites, "Wait, I can't say them, right? They're in the Epstein files."

"Everyone is," I respond, mixing jest with sincerity.

"This song isn’t merely about The Beatles. I don’t need to speculate; I don’t require John Lennon to imagine 'there's no country.' The British ceded the country! What I yearn for is a five-minute conversation with my dad." Nafar's humor flows seamlessly alongside the deeper reflections, inspiring laughter even amidst the sorrow of a son longing for connection with a father lost to time.

"I just need that five-minute conversation with my dad," he emphasizes, with palpable yearning.

A Performing Body

As Nafar envisions his own aspirations, love songs take precedence as his true calling. Beneath the lyrical strength and formidable hip-hop techniques that underscore his presence lies a vulnerability waiting to emerge. When asked about his ultimate creative intentions once the political storm subsides, he envisions music that delves into the complexities of relationships—romantic bonds, those between parents and children, connections with friends. He seeks not the glossy, sugary love songs often found on commercial radio, but rather authentic depictions of love, revealing who we become when we’re stripped of performance, including the inherent cracks and opportunities for repair.

"My primary ambition is to create love songs—not the clichéd tunes about ya omri ya ruhi bhbek (Oh, my life, my soul, I love you) and such. To me, relationships entail navigating the demons each person brings to the dynamic. A healthy relationship requires uncovering each individual’s triggers, understanding why they exist, and addressing them, often stemming from past traumas. It’s about confronting those inner demons. I genuinely wish to craft an album centered on that theme." He pauses, attempting to articulate why this project remains elusive, then continues: "Every time I initiate writing it or head in that direction, something occurs. Israel resumes its aggression against Gaza, or turmoil surfaces elsewhere. I have to set it aside. It’s not the right moment. But yes, that’s genuinely what I aspire to create."

Theater has also provided him with a new platform for performance. He has begun conceptualizing shows in a manner akin to how playwrights structure scenes: prioritizing mood and presence. Theater, with its emphasis on physicality, voice, movement, staging, audience engagement, and lighting, has allowed Nafar to perceive his performances as integrated systems where gestures, breath, spatial rhythm, and audience interaction weave together seamlessly.

"The director would interrupt me at each line, coaching: ‘go up, go down, go left, go right, be aware of the lights, understand motion, embody the character, build the intensity.’ This training assists in creating a cohesive setlist by sequencing the songs in effective ways."

Nafar’s performance-oriented mentality influences his music expansively. "I admire rappers and rap music, but I often find myself disillusioned by live shows," he chuckles. "I can’t stand the DJs and the excessive posturing. I’m not tuning in for a podcast. Personally, I think I’m not built to listen to 16 bars of rap at once. It can be overwhelming; a single brilliant line often resonates deeply with me, and I risk missing out on everything else."

As he elucidates, this approach has significantly shaped his new album: "That’s why I aimed for a different musical arrangement; each city showcases unique instrumentalists. Bassel Hariri played electronic violin with us in one location, while we had Milad Khawam on trumpet in Berlin. We strive for distinctiveness in every city."

During an era marked by the systemic silencing of Palestinians across Occupied and Historical Palestine, as well as allies facing suppression through interconnected media, the act of sharing a microphone carries profound significance.

Nafar recalls a recent performance in Haifa, where he felt a genuine connection blossom as he descended from the stage to interact freely with the audience. "Palestinians residing in Haifa have faced silence for two years, so I handed them the mic."

"Some shared their aspirations. Some expressed a longing to travel. Others cried. They conveyed their lived realities, their daily struggles. I simply wanted to listen to my people. During that show with 600 attendees, it was an honor to openly express my sentiments. I felt privileged to voice my feelings while also recognizing the inherent need for others to share theirs."