Throughout April, we’re honoring the ancient Arab tradition of hakawatis, or storytellers, highlighting the writers, performers, and poets who are driving the conversation around what it means to be Arab American today—and celebrating the rich culture and histories of the diaspora.
Nadine El Roubi’s story is one of constant motion—she’s never been anchored in one place for too long. “I always say that a place is also a face,” says the Afro-Arab rapper and artist. “I love vicariously living through other people and telling their stories, too.”
Born to an Egyptian Sudanese mother and an Iranian Sudanese father in Khartoum, Sudan, El Roubi’s has called many places home: She moved to Fairfax, Virginia, at age 1, before returning to Khartoum at age 10. After high school, her love of travel inspired relocations to Maastricht, Netherlands; Birmingham, England; Amman, Jordan; Aswan and Cairo, Egypt; and, now, to Boston—Worcester, to be exact.
Her career, meanwhile, has taken her to XP Music Futures in Riyadh, and Beirut’s Rap & Beyond festival, travels that have allowed her to uplift Afro-Arab storytelling on a global scale. Now, the artist—whose latest music video, “Wavy in Brooklyn,” with Felukah and Mo Stank, released earlier this month—is focused on the stories that feel most urgent. Like many artists from the SWANA region, she has recently channeled her energy into raising awareness for Sudan and Palestine on social media. At the same time, she’s rediscovering the joy of creating music for herself. “For me, storytelling has always been about self-exploration and giving myself permission to be myself in all its forms, and giving other people permission to feel okay doing the same thing,” she says.
Condé Nast Traveler spoke with El Roubi about the stories that inspire her, how her journeys deepen her connection to her roots, and what people get wrong about Arab storytellers.
What drew you into storytelling?
I grew up with stories. Reading was so important in my household. The earliest gifts I got were books. My mom would read to me, and I would read to my little sisters. We’d go to bookstores and [my mom] would make a whole day out of it. Stories have literally been my safe space, and even aside from reading, my mom would tell me stories about Sudan in the golden era, her childhood, and even stories of family drama. I think it’s only natural that, coming from that, [I have] a desire to tell stories—and understand that storytelling is not just about sharing an experience, but also about archiving history.
Do you have any favorite storytellers?
Safia Elhillio is my favorite writer of all time. She’s a Sudanese-American poet, and her writing is gut-wrenching. It took me almost a year to finish Home Is Not a Country because I would cry every few pages. It’s about this girl named Nima, and she misses a country that she’s from but she’s never been to. She’s only heard about it through stories. If you’re from Sudan, you know it’s about Sudan, but Safia keeps it ambiguous enough that any diaspora person can relate. She also has a collection of poems called Girls That Never Die about womanhood, female friendships, being objectified as an Arab woman—and specifically for her, what it means to be a Black Arab woman navigating Islam and modesty but also wanting to be free. She has a new book coming out soon called Bright Red Fruit.
