You may have heard of maladaptive daydreaming, but what happens when your reality is so dire that using your imagination is one of the only ways you can escape the perils of your physical environment? argues that using one’s imagination as a form of “escapism” can be a positive thing. The Jerusalem-born artist, whose father was the founder of an “important Palestinian alternative band”, Sabreen, currently resides in Paris. Bashar’s childhood was one at constant odds with itself. On one hand, he was present for his father’s gigs, yet he was seeing “soldiers on a daily basis”. He says, “I was lucky enough to be born into a musical family. I grew up while Sabreen were at their peak, so I was always surrounded by musicians, going to concerts and surrounded by beauty, but in contrast to the reality of the situation in Palestine.”
In conversation via Zoom, Bashar is warm, open and convivial, sparkly freely on his experience growing up in Jerusalem, why he feels “privileged” to have discovered music so young, and how his intersecting identities as a queer man and a Palestinian have influenced his work. As he matured, Bashar witnessed the annexation of Jerusalem; the building of the wall and construction of checkpoints. The proliferation of a kind of police state stifled artist expression. “When I was young, Jerusalem used to be a hub for artists who would come from all over Palestine, but because of all these closures and restrictions, Jerusalem started to become much less colourful,” Bashar says. “It was a very surreal reality of having a lot of beautiful things in my life but then having to cross checkpoints to go to school and see these soldiers on a daily basis. I had memories of the Intifadas happening in our neighbourhoods, and how our reality was constantly affected by the political climate. I was, in a way, privileged to have that outlet of music from such a young age, and having it as a tool to channel all of these frustrations we’re surrounded by as Palestinians.”
It’s no wonder why escapism and the power of imagination is a central theme in Bashar’s music. “Growing up in Jerusalem, I always had this idea that there was something better for me out there,” he shares. “I was very into pop culture, which was my escapism from this reality. I always thought, ‘If I leave and go somewhere else, I will be happy. I will find myself’. But, through exploring themes of escapism, I realised that it’s not about escaping or wanting to leave, but it’s that escapism can be something healthy. I can escape through my imagination. That’s how I can imagine new realities and that’s how I regain the power to be able to come back and fight.”
Now residing in France, Bashar is open about the dissonance of having a sanctuary whilst a genocide rages on without no end in sight. “It’s a very conflicting thing to be here in Europe and to be watching a genocide on our phones,” he says. “It’s been a very dark couple of years, but I always remind myself of the privilege I have. I’m still alive and am able to do what I love.”
Currently putting the finishing touches on his first full-length album in Arabic (which should be ready for release in Spring 2027), Bashar has been working with producer Howie B, with hopes of signing to independent record label, Cooking Vinyl. It’s an extension of the world-building present on Bashar’s 2021 debut EP ‘’, a pop-centric, Arabesque take on reggaeton, house and more. “‘Maskhara’ in Arabic means ‘bullsh*t’ or it could also mean ‘mockery’,” he explains. “The title track came out of frustration, but it’s also very satirical. It’s my way of dealing with this conflicting reality.” The hook of the song says it all: “It’s out of my hands to change my fate / No one understands my way of life / The only thing I have in my hand is a glass of whisky and it still doesn’t quench me” and then the chorus goes, ‘Pour another cup / Roll another cigarette / Maybe I’ll forget all this bullsh*t”.
Bashar says the track was inspired by an inter-generational observation of people who were resorting to vices such as alcohol and smoking to try quell the absurdity of their lived reality. The idea was “not to over-intellectualise or over-analyse the situation”, but he points out the double-standard in the reporting of Palestinian artists and their plight. “If it happened anywhere else in the world, it would not be deemed normal, but for us it’s all we know so it’s become our reality and our normal.”
For Bashar, the genocide in Gaza and the annexation of the West Bank, isn’t an abstraction but something wholly experiential. “It’s not like I’m speaking about a cause, I’m speaking about the surroundings I grew up in and the reality I grew up in,” he says. “These are things that I see on a daily basis. Seeing these things with your own eyes, it’s near impossible to just be silent about it. How can you see so many horrible things documented and televised for so long and be silent about it?”
As a queer artist, Bashar has had to reflect on what he wants from his life and the messaging he wants to project in his art. It’s all rooted in freedom. “Growing up as a queer person and Palestinian, I saw many forms of oppression, but that also showed me that I want to be free in the fullest meaning of the word,” he says. “I want to be free from every kind of oppression. My art is all about breaking free from the shackles of oppression but I’m also aware of the intersectionality of these struggles. I am all these different things and it’s all interconnected.”
Going forward, Bashar Murad wants to convey the full gamut of his repertoire. “I try, through my music, to show the humanity, my humanity; to show the range of different feelings that humans can possess. Some of my songs have this satirical, disillusioned feeling, some songs are uplifting and about self-love, and then I have songs that are full of rage and anger. To me, that’s what it means to be human, to have all these layers and not to try to fit into a certain image of what people expect a Palestinian artist to be.”