Rap and Mizoued Music: Claiming a Space for Dissent and Protest in Post-Arab Spring Tunisia

Introduction

Tunisia, this Arab-Muslim nation, has been the centre of the world’s attention since December 2010, when it sparked a wave of protests across the Arab region and became the cradle of what is often referred to as the ‘Arab Spring’ or ‘la revolution du jasmin’ in Francophonic circles. What is remarkable about the Arab Spring is that no one had predicted Tunisia to be the spark of such a historic event in the Arab world, owing to the ‘success’ of the old regimes in presenting Tunisia to the world as progressive, politically stable, and different to the rest of the Arab and Muslim world. Its uniqueness is due to its colonial history, and its geographical and cultural proximity to Europe. These factors characterize the Tunisian identity, encapsulated in the French word tunisianité.

The term tunisianité, as defined by Masri (2017), ‘combines Western modernity with a unique national identity’ (p. 355). It is the product of Tunisia’s modern history. It was in the era of Bourguibism (1956–1987) that Tunisia witnessed the implementation of sociocultural policies, notably in education and women’s emancipation (Yadh, 2017: 69). However, Bourguiba and his successor Ben Ali (1987–2010) have muzzled freedom of expression, controlled religious sermons, the arts, and denounced specific music genres such as Mizoued and rap.

The music of rap pertains to the hip-hop culture that includes graffiti and breakdancing (Rose, 1994). MCs (masters of ceremony) also use the term ‘hip hop music’, or say ‘hip hop’ instead of ‘rap’ when they refer to this music (Hess, 2007: 22–23). Hip-hop comes out of a culture ‘that extends beyond music to include graffiti art and b-boying (breakdancing), and can even refer to a lifestyle (as in KRS-One’s statement that rap is something you do, but hip hop is something you live’ (Hess, 2007: 22–23).

Rap in Tunisia is not a new genre. It first appeared in 2000 but faced marginalization and exclusion under Ben Ali’s regime because it sings about seditious topics perceived as alien to the Arab-Islamic culture. Rap artists were often accused of imitating Western ideals. According to Kahf (2007), ‘these artists are faced with the challenge of making hip hop an authentic new channel of Arab culture and not an affront to its heritage or an imitation of the west’ (p. 361).

The Mizoued, like the Scottish instrument, refers to a bagpipe with two punctured reed pipes coming from the end of the goatskin bag. This bag is inflated through the mouthpiece, and the bag is squeezed under the player’s arm. The Mizoued was a ‘victim of power’ in Bourguiba’s reign when it was excluded from being broadcast on national television (Amira, 2018). In the 1970s, the star of Mizoued was Saleh Farzit, who suffered marginalization and exclusion under the Bourguiba regime (Al-Bousalmi, 2017). Mzēwdiyye (Mizoued players) were perceived as bandits and drunkards, who sing about issues deemed to divide the nation, such as discrimination and the discrepancies that exist between social classes (Stapley, 2006). Stapley (2006: 253) claims that the Mzēwdī sing about sex and that their music is ‘licentious’. The examples provided by the author do not do justice to the genre, as Mizoued music not only deals with the pain of impossible love affairs but also has a sacred history in the period when it was used to revere Sufi spiritual leaders (al-awliyā).

In the 1990s, Mizoued gained wide acceptance and was integrated with other musical forms in a uniting celebration referred to as Al-Nouba (Al-Bousalmi, 2017). Owing to the popularity of artists such as Hedi Donia, ¹ Hedi Habbouba, and the female singer Fatma Bousehe, Mizoued was broadcast for the first time on national television.

Mizoued and rap share common themes, such as poverty, unemployment, ghorba (nostalgia for the mother land and family), and ḥarga (lit. burning, border jumping, illegal immigration). Other themes found in Mizoued include unrequited love, betrayal of friends, and longing for a family and the mother.

Unlike Mizoued, hip-hop formed an unlikely and paradoxical alliance with politics after the Arab Spring. Tunisia’s various political parties in post-Arab Spring, exceeding 100 in number, had hoped to capture the hearts and minds of ordinary Tunisians by taking advantage of the rappers’ popularity. For instance, political candidates such as Mehrez Boussayane claimed to be a houmani (someone who lives in the neighbourhood) candidate by relying on Kafon’s famous song ‘Houmani’, which was a popular hit; the aim was to build a rapport with the ordinary Tunisians (Golpushnezad and Barone, 2016). These parties wanted rappers and hip-hop artists to side with them and espouse their campaign agendas. Few rappers such as Klay BBJ knew the hidden agenda behind the political parties’ sudden interest in their music. Hence, most of the rap artists found themselves in a tricky position, sandwiched between mafia-style political parties who imposed restrictions on them if they succumbed to their agenda, and their striving for success on the local and international stage. The song title ‘Lasna lel Bay’ (We are not for sale) was Klay BBJ’s response to a political party’s pressure on him to be a vehicle for their agenda. However, Golpushnezad and Barone (2016: 38) argue that some rappers were ‘pushed to accept political sponsorship to gain success’, hence serving the ideological aims of the political parties.

Rappers and hip-hop artists were also entangled with international associations. Other than the desire to give a voice to the marginalized, the ideological motives behind the promotion of rap in Tunisia by the Goethe Institut, Institut Française, and the Danish NGO Turning Tables remain to be seen. However, many observers assume that rappers ‘would embrace a secular reading of the freedom they advocated’ (Golpushnezad and Barone, 2016: 47; my translation). Being a rapper does not mean being anti-religion (Golpushnezad and Barone, 2016: 47); some rappers express radical Muslim sensibility, which is misunderstood by Western observers. Shannahan and Hussain (2011: 39) argue that the religious element calls for ‘double vision’ or ‘double consciousness’, allowing ‘people to be in two places at once and maintain a double perspective on reality’ (Tate as quoted in Shannahan and Hussain, 2011: 41). However, ‘double vision’ and marginalization are the product of the interaction between the individual and society, and are bound by socio-political trajectories and power. And with the context of the Arab Spring, the creation of a new social space in which artists can freely perform not only began to change negative attitudes towards the genre, but also potentially changes the artist’s personal disposition and history. In conceptualizing the interplay between the individual and society, the article focusses the discussion around the notion of ‘space’ in the context of a revolution, using the Bourdieusian concepts of habitus, capital, and field. The article seeks to answer two fundamental questions: first, how do rap and Mizoued artists maintain authenticity in their discourses on the socio-political situation in Tunisia? Second, how does the Bourdieusian conceptualization of ‘habitus’, ‘capital’, and ‘field’ serve as the theoretical tools in understanding the artists’ own disposition and trajectories in the context of a significant event such as the Arab Spring?

Literature review

The Arab Spring, when it relates to Tunisia, is often hailed as ‘the Tunisian exception’. While Tunisia was fortunate to avert ‘the bloodbath route’ in the realization of democracy, the transition to economic prosperity and the eradication of corruption have been Tunisia’s persistent problems. Several works have emerged arguing the negative consequences of the Arab Spring (Fraihat, 2016; Zartman, 2015).

However, researchers have underestimated the revolutionary power of language and music. Since the revolution, the phenomenon of hip-hop and rap in Tunisia has occupied both scholarly and popular studies and has been the subject of many journalistic essays. The interest has arisen because music in Tunisia was not perceived as protest music before the Arab Spring, according to Bouzouita (2013). During the Arab Spring, rappers demanded not only to negotiate their human rights and denounce oppression, but also ‘wanted the fall of the regime, and they used a vocabulary that was remarkably slashing, with a profusion of words like “go” and “flee”’ (Bouzouita, 2013: 288).

In the same vein, Aidi (2014: xxi) asserts that ‘music has long been used by youth to protest, proclaim identity, build community, and interpret the world’. Though Aidi’s analysis concerns itself mainly with global youth, some lessons could be drawn and applied to Tunisia, especially when we analyse it through a cultural lens.

Viewing hip-hop and rap as a new element of culture in Tunisia has initiated a discussion about authenticity. According to Kahf (2007), hip-hop artists claim their authenticity in three ways: first, by addressing local issues unspoken in the community; second, by focussing on people’s shared experience and suffering; and third, by making hip-hop a unique form of expression. The drive for authenticity is at the core of hip-hop and rap in Tunisia, with Tunisian Arabic (TA) its main vehicle. Alim (2002: 288) argues that ‘hip hop artists vary their speech consciously to construct a street-conscious identity, allowing them to stay connected to the streets’. Kahf (2007) outlines three dimensions of authenticity: socio-political, emotional–experiential, and rhetorical. Socio-politically, rappers address what is real in the streets and unacknowledged in other music genres. The emotional–experiential effect occurs when rappers develop their credibility by sharing their own experiences with the audience. Rhetorically, rappers use the form and style of their songs to establish authenticity. In contrast with other Arabic music genres, hip-hop ‘claims its authenticity by providing creative change and aesthetic contributions to popular culture’ (Kahf, 2007: 377). The TA dialect is at the core of authenticity, coupled with the rappers’ self-identification with the street culture, and the problems associated with it. Hip-hop takes its local flavour through ‘its language, dialect, musical instruments, and local issues, and transforms itself beyond imitation to invention and cultural creativity’ (Kahf, 2007: 360). Rappers attempt to uphold their authenticity by embodying the language of the street, which carries the stigma of vulgarism, but dislike being reputed as thugs because of the language they use.

Indeed, this is not unique to rap. Mzēwdiyye were perceived as bandits, drunkards, who sing about issues that are deemed to divide the nation, such as regional discrimination and discrepancies between social classes (Stapley, 2006). However, Stapley (2006: 253) claims that the Mzēwdī sing about sex and that their music is ‘licentious’. Stapley’s examples to support this claim do not do justice to the music, as most Mizoued songs deal with platonic love affairs. The marginalization of Mizoued is a class-related issue, because Mizoued is considered to have an ‘inferior’ origin, expressing the ‘social hypocrisy that one cannot claim to be a person of taste and culture and be found to like the Mizoued!’, according to Saloua Hafaidh, a graduate of the Tunis Institute of Music (Chamkhi, 2010b).

Despite Mizoued’s marginalization, many Tunisians like the genre. It flourished in the 1980s and 1990s and was used in small budget weddings. It owes its popularity to the success of artists such as Hedi Donia, Hedi Habbouba, and the female singer Fatma Bousehe, all of whom raised its status, as evidenced by its acceptance as entertainment on national television.

Recently, Mizoued has revitalized itself in an unexpected union with rap. This is exemplified in songs such as ‘Khallouni’ (Let Me Be) sung by Hedi Donia and Artmasta, and in the song ‘Mchaou’ (They Departed) sung by Balti and Samir Loussif, both of which had more than 7 million views. Furthermore, the broadcasting of the 2019 series Nouba in the month of Ramadhan on Nessma TV is a clear sign that the producer is attempting to establish a realistic depiction of the genre. However, the existence of other musical entertainment for weddings has competed and narrowed down the operating space of the Mizoued. While it is difficult to predict the future of Mizoued in the coming decades, it will survive in its traditional form in rural areas in Tunisia, returning to its place of birth.

Parallel to studies on hip-hop and rap in Tunisia, studies on the Mizoued genre have attracted several recent articles, some of which hark back to the pre-revolution period, such as the work by Stapley (2006), and the documentary and Weblog by Sonia Chamkhi (2010a, 2010b). In the post-Arab Spring, there are a plethora of works (‘Amira, 2018; Salzbrunn et al., 2015; Ltifi, 2019).

Stapley’s (2006) article provides a brief historical account of the rural roots of this genre, and discusses themes such as ‘the pain of love’ and ‘ghorba’. As mentioned earlier, she offers a biased interpretation of its licentious nature. Salzbrunn et al. (2015) take the theme ‘ḥarga’ (border jumping) in greater detail. The article provides an intimate interpretation of the vocabulary used in the Mizoued songs, some of which are used in this article. What is lacking in all these studies, particularly regarding Mizoued, is attention to measuring the revolutionary impact of these two genres on the life of Tunisians.

The role of music in the revolution has been described in terms of two extreme positions. Some analysts consider that it does not affect culture, while others believe it has a revolutionary role (Bouzouita, 2013). Dallaji (2013: para. 8) comments that the analysis of rap music in Tunisia explores ‘whether the emergence of rap music from the underground has led to cultural movement and has changed Tunisia’s cultural landscape’. This question needs a longitudinal study, which may be the subject of future research.

The cultural changes in Tunisia reflect the new, and music has acquired the role of protest (Dallaji, 2013). This music genre is encouraged, not only by TV stations who invite young artists to showcase their work (Dallaji, 2013), but also by international associations such as the Goethe Institut, Institut Française, and the Danish NGO Turning Tables. These associations’ ideological motives for promoting rap in Tunisia remain to be seen. However, many observers assume that rappers ‘would embrace a secular reading of the freedom they advocated’ Golpushnezad and Barone, 2016: 47; my translation). Bound by Islamic cultural expectations, rap music in Tunisia still adheres to Tunisia’s cultural norms, attempting to avoid vulgarisms and taboo themes such as ‘drugs’ and ‘sex’. The irony of this is that the push for a culture of hedonism and secularism was encouraged under Ben Ali’s ideology, according to Golpushnezad and Barone (2016). Hence, hip-hop and rap in Tunisia will face contradictions, whether they continue to represent the voice of the poor while adhering to artistic freedom, or succumb to police repression and feed into Tunisia’s political economy. What curbs the diffusion of the Tunisian rappers’ work, and hence the building of their professional career, is piracy, according to Dallaji (2013). This would lessen the impact of the artists’ music on the cultural landscape of Tunisia. Dallaji (2013: para.13) concludes that rap in Tunisia is ‘primarily a companion or an observer of social development . . . a medium that made those who listened to it aware of the causes for the outbreak of the so-called Arab Spring’. Underground rappers such as Bendirman promoted a ‘countercultural style . . . which thus became an anthropological marker of difference and the expression of a common alternative identity transformed by a common willingness’ (Bouzouita, 2013: 291). By recapturing the symbolic space hijacked by the government, not solely in concrete terms, rappers claim ownership of their Tunisian and Islamic identity.

Two areas of enquiry are overlooked in the literature. The first is the role of language, which anchors the rapper in their space, and contributes to our understanding of the socio-political and cultural situation in Tunisia. According to Martin, music criticizes politics through coded and double language, metaphor, and symbol (quoted in Salzbrunn et al., 2015: 39). This article will explore some codes and devices by which critical messages and themes are carried in the music of localities and the streets.

The second area that has been overlooked in literature is how Bourdieu’s theory of habitus, capital, and field helps us to understand the complexity of the relationship between the individual and society in the context of a revolution.

Theoretical framework

This article combines several interconnected theories of music and popular culture to inform discussion of the notions of space, authenticity, habitus, capital, and field in Tunisian music of the street and the neighbourhood.

Bourdieu’s concepts of cultural capital, habitus, and field need to be framed within the context of the structuralist and existentialist theories embodied in Lévi-Strauss and Jean-Paul Sartre, respectively. Lévi-Strauss contends that the individual is bound by social relations with little freedom, and hence agency is lacking in his structuralist worldview (Swartz, 2002: 62S). In addition, structuralism ‘posits that normative rules specify what actors should do in particular situations’ (Swartz, 2002: 62S). On the other hand, Sartre’s ‘subjectivism’ gives the individual unbridled freedom divorced from the social reality in which they exist (Swartz, 2002: 62). Bourdieu provides empirical examples of how the individual is both influenced by and the product of society (Bourdieu, 2010). Swartz (2002: 62S) sees Bourdieu’s concept of human action as ‘strategic, constitutive of cultural standards as well as adaptive to them’. Bourdieu’s theory hinges on three interlocking concepts, habitus, capital, and field. Bourdieu (2010) contends that habitus is ‘the internalized form of class condition and of the conditionings it entails’ (p. 95). He explains that the habitus structures and organizes practices and their perception and is in turn structured by the internalized division of social classes (Bourdieu, 2010: 170).

Bourdieu’s notion of field refers to the ‘formal and informal norms governing a particular social sphere of activity (e.g. family, pubic school, higher education, art, politics, and economics)’ (Edgerton and Roberts, 2014: 3).

Class boundaries embody the notion of space (Bourdieu, 1996: 12). Social space is ‘an invisible set of relationships’, which is expressed in physical space in how ‘agents and properties’ are arranged (Bourdieu, 1996: 12).

Indeed, the Arab Spring has brought with it changes to space in all its facets: political, cultural, and sociological. Before the Arab Spring, the Arab World was inflicted with dictatorships, whose essence was to control the public arena (Danahar, 2013: 22). When public space became virtual, social media usurped the regime’s power. The ‘facebookization’ of Tunisia was a significant platform for the voices of dissent because the ‘usual government tactics didn’t work. There was no one to buy off, lock up or scare away’ (Danahar, 2013: 24). Zieleniec (2007) has stressed the significance of ‘space’ in knowledge formation about the social world and ourselves; ‘. . . the space we inhabit, make use of, and imagine in our everyday lives is . . . inherently social’ (p. xii). Lefebvre (1901–1991: 185) looks at the ‘role of the state in the control of space but also at the question of class struggle, spatially understood, and the transformative potential invested in the contradictions of capitalist space’.

Applying the notion of ‘space’ to the case of rap in Tunisia, Saadellaoui (2014) alludes to Kant’s theories in both the geometrical and metaphysical dimensions of space: ‘the physical space of Tunisian rappers is the scene and the street; the social space relates to their daily interactions with people from the popular neighbourhoods’ (p. 6; my translation). However, ‘cultural capital’ is not easily recognized as a social construct in Tunisia, which is represented as a classless society. Tunisians live an imagined social structure where ‘on the one side, everybody was “middle class”; on the other, a folklore of representations of inequality, expressed by symbolic and allusive languages, permeated the Tunisian ethos’ (Barone, 2017: 8). These social differences are exemplified in language habits (TA vs French), local differences (northern vs southern), and modes of entertainment (music choice; Barone, 2017). The ongoing differences can be perceived in the division between the north and the south, when ‘Tunisians from the south were seen as comically backwards and their accent and supposed gullibility were parodied in TV shows’ (Barone, 2017: 8). This article looks at how rap and Mizoued are authentic in their exposure of the class differences that the previous regimes deny.

Methodology

This article focusses on the music of rap and Mizoued in post-Arab Spring Tunisia. The music of rap and Mizoued achieved most of its popularity in the pre-Arab Spring. Rap artists include El Général, Kafon (real name Ahmed Labidi), Balti (real name Mohamed Salah Balti), and Klay BBJ (real name Ahmed Ben Ahmad). Mizoued artists include Samir Loussif, Hedi Donia, and Hedi Habbouba. The songs are taken from YouTube videos, and for Mizoued, most of the songs are taken from compact discs, as some of these are not available on YouTube.

Known mainly for his song ‘Raʻīs Leblēd’ (The President), El Général has been a dynamic rapper since 2009. Raʾīs Leblēd achieved considerable success because it was an honest plea, an open letter to the president Ben Ali describing the poverty and suffering of the unprivileged Tunisians. With words like ‘President, your people are dying’, the song challenged the government and moved many Tunisians. Time magazine acknowledged this song in 2011 and classified El Général as one of the most influential figures in the world (Baltayeb, 2014).

Despite recent criticism that he is moving away from the rap genre, Balti remains a significant and well-liked figure in Tunisia’s rap scene. He began his career in 2003 when he was a member of the group Wled Bled (Children of the Country). Balti gained an international reputation, with songs such as ‘Yaa Lili’ reaching half of a billion views on YouTube. Balti’s music was featured and made available on social media such as Facebook, and other commercial applications such as iTunes and Spotify. Balti’s songs deal with many issues such as ḥarga, the dire economic situation, and regional socio-economic disparities.

The rapper Kafon became a celebrity with his song ‘Houmani’, sung with the rapper Med Amine. With its catchy rhythm, the song reached over 4 million views. Its YouTube version carries images of Tunisian streets that contrast with the false prosperity of Tunisia that the regime wanted to export to the world. Kafon sings about various themes, such as ẓatla (cannabis), prison, poverty, and government corruption.

Klay BBJ, featured in the main discussion of this article, is a significant addition to the rap scene in Tunisia. His style differs from other rappers in his use of vulgarisms, and his claimed disassociation from politics. Since his name is derived from Muhammed Ali Klay and his neighbourhood Beb Eljdid, Klay BBJ claims to be a fighter embodying ordinary Tunisians.

The Mizoued artists featured in this article include Samir Loussif, ² Fawzi Ben Gamra, and Hedi Donia. Samir Loussif is known for various songs such as ‘Oumimti el Ghalia’, ‘Ouicha’, ‘Ech Lazzani ala Mor’, ‘Zin Ridi Fil’, ‘Nidhik lilli ma ynam ellil’, ‘Aman aman’, ‘Bent El Hay’, and ‘J’en ai marre’ (Chamkhi, 2010a: para. 1). Fawzi Ben Gamra’s success goes back to 2009 with his popular songs such as ‘Bent Hlal, Jwabeti’, and ‘Njībek Njībek’. His career was interrupted by his sudden religious awakening, which prompted him to give up Mizoued. Hedi Donia is a Mizoued singer who resurrected the sacred origins of the Mizoued in 1995 (Chamkhi, 2010a: para. 5). According to Zouheir Gouja, a Tunisian music academic,

R’boukh, which formed the central axis, or rather the soul, of this kind of popular song are the Sufi songs [. . .]. Yet the ‘sacred’ origins of the Mizoued are little known if the specialist of popular cultural expressions Ali Saidane mentions them in his study entitled ‘The Mizoued: from the ghetto to the top 50’, few people remember the founding origins (cited in Chamkhi, 2010a: para. 3).

All data are taken from YouTube clips. The songs are transcribed verbatim, with some of the translations kept literal to demonstrate the intensity and the rhetorical nature of the message. ³ The data are analysed qualitatively, with the focus on discourse. It hinges on the implications of the sociocultural theories of ‘space’ and the Bourdieusian notions of habitus, capital, and field for the study of dissent, power, and marginalization.

Future studies on the topic will include interviews with the artists, the lack of which is one of the limitations of this article.

Discussion: space, authentication, and theoretical implications

In answering the two questions outlined in the introduction, this section discusses how rappers and Mizoued players have authenticated their messages in socio-political terms and investigates how Bourdieu’s concepts and the notion of ‘space’ could be applied to understanding the underpinnings of marginalization and dissent.

Hip-hop and rap have allied against oppression and the living conditions of ordinary Tunisians since the revolution. Freedom of expression and democracy have eased the occupation of space in political, cultural, and sociological domains. Rappers and Mizoued artists use this usurped space to describe, through music, an ordinary Tunisian’s experiences and reactions towards the revolution. Artists in this genre are expected to uphold their country’s ethos, vision, and the people’s aspirations for a better future.

Despite their marginalization under Ben Ali, Mizoued and rap have infiltrated all social classes, but singers claim to remain faithful to middle and lower classes of society, as they represent the voice of the zawwāli (the poor). This stance authenticates their messages and serve to increase their popularity. In claiming authenticity, rappers in particular rely on three significant determiners: first, the language they use to convey their message; second, the media stance towards their music and criticism of it; and third, the rapper’s attitudes towards politics.

In both rap and Mizoued music, TA plays a significant role in authenticating the rapper’s messages. TA, the colloquial form of Modern Standard Arabic (MSA), has improved its status since the revolution. It is used now in the media, political shows, entertainment, and advertising. The recent work by Sayahi (2014) on the linguistic situation in Tunisia demonstrates that the internet and social media reduce the sociolinguistic gap between languages and language status. TA, which was restricted to the spoken domain during Bourguiba’s reign, has become a written medium, noticeable in advertising during Ben Ali’s regime and more today. During and after the Arab Spring, TA’s prestige rose with nationalism. With the absence of internet censorship, Tunisians including rappers found the freedom to express their thoughts and experiences in TA. For instance, when criticized for using vulgarism in TA, Klay BBJ (2016) interjects and states that

[r]ap comes from the street, and it will always be from there. The language wasn’t created by me. I didn’t invent bad words. It’s the truth that people deny. When you disagree with a Tunisian, he won’t speak to you in Arabic, he will swear at you! I am Tunisian, and I won’t change! [Translation was encoded in the video].

Rappers have been accused of not being authentic to the rap genre; for instance, in Balti’s recent duo work with Sami Loussif, Walid Tounsi, and Zina El-Gasriniyye, the music is characterized by House Pop. Balti rejects these accusations: ‘I don’t like to produce a hundred percent rap now. I like to have new experiences, but I remain a rapper’ (YouTube, 2017).

When Balti was asked, if he is classified as a non-rap artist, he answered that ‘everywhere, even in France, there is no longer rap, but there is a hybrid genre which is very successful’ (YouTube, 2017). Balti admits that he cannot survive with a sole dedication to rap. He stresses that ‘rap is a closed circle, not a big audience’ (YouTube, 2017). In a musical festival, Balti estimates that rap supporters may be counted at around 500, compared with 2500 who come to hear other genres.

However, the valorization of rap in the media and on TV channels where rappers are often invited is notable. Apart from aiming to attract a higher number of viewers, media in Tunisia seek to highlight difference, and celebrate change occurring in the Tunisian society under the banner of the ‘shock of the new’. These programmes were not encouraged before the Arab Spring under both Bourguiba and Ben Ali. For instance, many TV programmes such ‘Fekrat Sami Fehri’, and ‘Abdelli Showtime’ have invited to their platform controversial figures; for example, a recent invitation of the heavily tattooed Tunisian-American rapper Swagg Man polarized opinions on social media about whether to accept such figures on Tunisian TV channels. Caglar (1998) explains the commercial intention of arts,

in [a] world of proliferating identity politics where otherness, cultural difference and cross-over prove to be both marketable and consumable categories, the rhetoric of otherness and aesthetical forms that play on cultural diversity and otherness have moral as well as commercial value. (p. 248)

Politically, both rap and Mizoued share similar themes, but they diverge in terms of direct criticism of the regime. While rap directly criticizes politics, Mizoued still adheres to traditional themes such as ghorba, and the pain of love with its vicissitudes. Almost all rappers have criticized the government, including Artmasta, Klay BBJ, Balti, and Kafon. For instance, Balti, in the song ‘Hala Mala’ below, describes the corrupt and hypocritical nature of the government, where it allows drug supply, but punishes the user. In the same vein is Kafon’s song ‘Chaqq Chaqq’, where he describes the government as ‘nits’ and ‘lice’. The following examples from Balti and Kafon sample some of the criticisms of the Tunisian government in post-Arab Spring:

Balti (Song: ‘Hala Mala’)

cheyy ma yiʿjib w tḥibbūna nqūlū labēs

mādām illi ḥokmūna surrāq

ybīʿūlna fil zaṭla u yarmūna fil aḥbēs

(Nothing is good and you want us to say we are well)

(Since the government is a thief. They sell us cannabis, but they throw us in jail).

Kafon (Song: ‘Chaqq Chaqq’)

ḥokmūna hmel sibēn gmal

zawwālī hbel al-raʾīs la ybill la yʿill

(We are governed by the corrupt ‘nits’ and ‘lice’).

(The poor have lost their mind [and] the president has no clue).

Conversely, some rappers like Klay BBJ denounce the linking of rap with politics, as expressed in his song ‘Lasna lilbeyʿ’ (We are not for sale) where he explicitly disassociates himself from both the political parties and from those who sided with the Tunisian government. This is not the only song where Klay BBJ puts forward his purpose of rapping. He proclaims in his song ‘Al Borkan’, ‘I gave my blood and life to rap, unlike others who achieved their goals easily. We didn’t flatter the government; didn’t we say we can’t be sold?’ In his song ‘Mayhebouch Lehtiram’ (They do not like respect), he asserts that that to him rap is a hobby, not a profession.

A sociological manifestation of despair with the current situation in Tunisia is the desire to escape and jump borders illegally, hence the word ḥarga with its literal sense of ‘burning’. Ḥarga has been rap’s main theme since the Arab Spring. This theme is featured in various songs, such as by Kafon’s ‘Nhebb Ngualaa’ (I want to go; I want to get high), ⁴ Balti’s ‘Wala Lala’ ((Do I go) or not?). ⁵ ‘Wala Lala’ explores the motivation for ḥarga, which is poverty. It also explores the mental anguish of deciding whether to leave the country for a better life, such as in Rome, where you see Ferraris, a symbol of wealth and success. The indecision emanates from the fear of leaving the mother behind; as the mother embodies the strongest bond with the land and family. In the same vein, Kafon’s song ‘Nhebb Ngualaa’ also conveys mental anguish and hopelessness, and the desire to be alone in the company of ẓatla. Balti’s song ‘Ya Lili’, featuring the teenager Hammouda, mentions the desire to leave the country as in niqlib wijhi min hne yamma (lit. I want to change my face from here, I want to go). Klay BBJ’s ‘Borkan’ (Volcano) alludes to the risks of border jumping, as in rjālek hērba hājja fi flūka (Your men are in exodus on a boat).

Ḥarga has been the focus of numerous journalist articles; Le Point International (2018) ⁶ focussed on the Moroccan harraga (border jumpers), challenging the misconceptions that youths choose to be unemployed and seek to leave the country for a more comfortable life. One of Le Point International’s (2018) respondents warns that, in the building sector where skills are not required, ‘you are neither declared nor protected, you can die while doing your job, and nobody will care about you’ (para. 22). According to Salzbrunn et al. (2015), clandestine migration (or border jumping) started in the 1980s after some European states adopted stringent anti-migration measurements.

The songs (both Mizoued and rap) portray a sense of hopelessness. The songs include words such as maghmūm, maḍlūm, mḥattam (depressed, oppressed, crushed), as featured in Kafon’s songs ‘Chkūn fīkom mirtēḥ’, ‘Makhnūg’ (stifled), and ‘Nhebb Nguelle’, respectively, and in the songs of other rappers:

Balti (Song: ‘Clandestino’)

Sac à dos ʿla dhahrek temchi min ghīr GPS

(With a bag on your back you walk without GPS).

Balti (Song: ‘Ḥala Mala’)

Cha ʿb yoghzor l-ghodwa bil-khūf u bil helwēs.

(The people look at tomorrow with worry and hallucinations).

Culturally, in contrast to Western rap, Tunisian rap songs often sing about the mother. The term ‘mother’ with its various references in TA (lommīma, ommi, al-ghālya) does not just symbolize mother per se; it also refers to ‘a sister’ or ‘the motherland Tunisia’, as in the case of Saleh Farzit’s song ‘Erdha ʿAlīna Ya Lommīma’ (We seek your blessing motherland). Various rap and Mizoued artists promise to provide for the mother and offer her a better way of life in exchange for her blessing and forgiveness, since filial piety is entrenched in the Arabic and Islamic culture. The songs also depict the mother’s sadness for the son’s long absence. References to the ‘sainthood’ of the mother are found in songs such as these:

Rap:

Balti and Master Sina (Song: Clandestino, partly in the Italian language).

Clandestino io voglio diventare ricco facendo contento la mamma

(Illegal, I want to make my mum happy).

Klay BBJ (Song: ʿUchāq el ʿĪb)

Ma lqīt kān lommīma wēsētnī

(I only found my mother who comforted me)

Mizoued:

Saleh Farzit (Song: Erdha ʿAlīna Ya Lommīma) ⁷

erdha ʿlīna ya lommīma, rāna mudhāmīn

nistennēw fil ʿafw yjīna min 76

(O mother [Tunisia] give us your blessing, we are oppressed,

We have been waiting for freedom since 1976).

Faouzi Ben Gamra (song: ‘Jwabati’) ⁸

‘My letters become numerous, and I keep promising you’

(I am returning [to you], always the same words, and for years I have promised you [to return home]).

A noticeable cultural change in Tunisia since the revolution, especially among youth, is the prevalence of soft-core drugs like cannabis (Hajbi, 2017). It is estimated that 57% of youths in the age bracket of 13 to 18, and 36% in the age bracket of 18 of 25, use ẓatla (Hajbi, 2017: n.p.). But the exact figure remains unknown, even though Tunisia is a member of The United Nations Convention Against Illicit Traffic in Narcotic Drugs and Psychotropic Substances (Nefzi, 2013: para. 5). Rym Snene, a psychologist, states that youths are attracted to the use of drugs because of the harsh socio-economic situation they are experiencing: ‘they face many difficulties from a material and cultural point of view. They are often from poor and precarious families with fathers often absent, alcoholic or violent. These young people face socialization difficulties’ (cited in Amraoui, 2015: para. 8).

In rap music, there is a recurring theme of using zatla. Rappers like Kafon, Artmasta, and Klay BBJ often refer to it without euphemisms. For instance,

Artmasta (Song: ‘Mazatil’, featuring the rapper Kafon) ⁹

sigaro double msanter mtanger kapti ya ḥouma

(A double joint, centred, filled, neighbour capture [the vibes]).

tah ʿlīna el-līl min dhoḥka ed-demʿa tsīl mazāṭīl.

(The night fell and tears fell, as we laughed intoxicated).

Klay BBJ: (song: ‘Jounta Qabla Nawm’) ¹⁰

aʿṭini junta newmi

(Give me a joint for sleeping).

The examples above exemplify the language of the Tunisian street. TA embodies the poetic licence of tunisianité. This linguistic choice not only validates authenticity; it ‘claims authenticity by providing creative change and aesthetic contributions to popular culture’ (Kahf, 2007: 377).

Artists also claim authenticity with songs that candidly describe the worsening situation in Tunisia after the Arab Spring. As mentioned earlier, social issues such as illegal migration, drug abuse, unemployed youths, corruption, and increased poverty are some of the themes that are sung about, and that the current government has ignored. Music, especially rap, has assumed a new role, as it mirrors the sociocultural changes in post-Arab Spring Tunisia and increase people’s awareness, while holding the government accountable for its actions and policies. Tunisians are discontented and dismayed by the hijacked revolution that promised ‘employment, freedom, social justice, and dignity’ (Culbertson, 2011: 235). The ‘Tunisian exception’ discussed in academic circles as a sign of a successful revolution refers more to the bloodless transition to democracy (Brenner, 2016: para. 12).

But 24.7% of Tunisians live in poverty after the revolution, according to some formal Tunisian estimates (Khodair and Khalifa, 2013: 7). Instead of alleviating poverty, the Essebsi government is preoccupied with ‘identity’ issues such as equal inheritance between men and women, which was proposed by the Individual Freedoms and Equality Committee (IFEC) chaired by Bochra Hadj Hmida.

The marginalization of Mizoued and rap in Tunisia is not haphazard. It is bound by socio-political trajectories and power. In the context of the Arab Spring, the creation of the new social space in which artists can freely perform questions, not only the negative attitudes towards the genre, but also whether these positive changes have a role in changing the artist’s personal disposition and history.

Concerning ‘habitus’, Mizoued players who were originally manual workers from the rural areas, and who are brought up in impoverished neighbourhoods such Jbal Laḥmar – a suburb in Tunis – listening to Mizoued music are more likely to be interested solely in this type of music. Hence, they are more disposed to appreciate and value this type of music than others who were raised up listening to other popular music. These internalized ‘structured structures’ of habitus (Swartz, 2002: 63) include all individual characteristics such history, present, appearance, lifestyle, and other constituents of identity.

However, habitus does not occur in a vacuum. It extends to Bourdieu’s notion of capital, cultural, economic, symbolic, and social, which is ‘unequally distributed across social classes’ (Swartz, 2002: 65S). In Tunisia, capital is observable mainly in the economic, social, and cultural fields in terms of education; the cultural capital in Tunisia is embodied in education and place. Mizoued and rap artists do not usually hold tertiary education, and they are usually raised or migrated to low socio-economic areas of the Tunisian capital known as ʾaḥyā chaʿbiyye (popular neighbourhoods) such Bāb Swīqa, El-Halfāouine, and Hafsia. Mizoued players in particular were criticized for choosing this type of music because they chose to practise this genre ‘not for aesthetic musical reasons but to find a way of making money to survive’ (Stapley, 2006: 244). Appreciation of this genre among followers hinges on their early exposure and acceptance in their community.

The notion of ‘field’ can be applied to the competition that exists between the marginalized Mizoued genre and other more accepted genres such as the ‘Arab/Andalusian tradition’ maluf music, considered as the urban ‘classical’ or ‘art’ music of Tunisia (Davis, 1996: 316). It is with the artist’s habitus and capital that they enter the field. The government, referred to as ‘the political field’ treats the Mizoued players and rap artists as the ‘insurgents’ whose music destabilizes the established social structure; the individual or the music player’s background does not qualify them to enter the ‘higher’ social structure. The government’s insistence that Mizoued should not be recognized as an acceptable or a ‘refined’ art form affects the individual’s perception of the world, their habitus.

The marginalization of Mizoued and rap can also be explained from the viewpoint of power, unique structures, and the norm. Bourdieu explains that the social classificatory system is controlled by those who dominate society; the dominated in turn, tend to accept these classifications as ‘natural and inevitable’ (Huppatz, 2010: para. 24). Mizoued is stigmatized because of its rural origin, practised by migrant men who have settled in poor urban neighbourhoods. The stigma of being a barrāni (stranger; outsider), jabrī (uncultured, unrefined), and zūfrī (corrupt French ouvrier ‘manual worker’) still sticks to the cultural memory of being a Mzēwdi. The successful 2019 Tunisian TV series Nouba, with more than a million viewers, depicts the Mzēwdi living in low socio-economic, violent neighbourhoods, participating in illegal activities, and always in confrontations with the police.

While not entirely discrediting Bourdieu’s theory of taste as tied to social class, Ashwood and Bell (2016) argue that taste is attached to affection and that ‘transcendence’ can overcome class differences, hence opening Bourdieu’s cages of class and habitus. Feelings of transcendence when listening to Mizoued may translate into a sense of nostalgia; one of Foroudi’s (2019) informants said, when asked why the Mizoued genre is back on the music chart, that ‘[The music] makes us think of our grandparents, the old neighborhoods, weddings, the smells of these places’ (para. 3).

Conclusion

Music, in the two genres of rap and Mizoued, is a significant reflection of an evolving post-Arab Spring Tunisian culture. Notwithstanding the early marginalization of both genres, rap and Mizoued depict a worsening socio-economic and political situation in Tunisia. With the aid of social media, Mizoued and rap have emerged and staked their claim to a space, a breathing ground, wherein artists express frustration and dismay about Tunisia’s socio-economic and political realities. This usurped space is interpreted in both political and sociocultural terms. Politically, the freedom of expression has allowed rappers and Mizoued players to represent the voice of dissent without fear of imprisonment. Rap, unlike Mizoued, is a relatively new genre in Tunisia, representing a new cultural mirror; it functions beyond entertainment when it sings about social and political issues.

Rap and Mizoued players strive to authenticate their message through language use and themes. They use the same platform to sing about ḥarga, the mother, zatla, hopelessness, and a worsening economic situation; some of the themes that contradict earlier narratives of the Tunisian ‘exception’ that is theorized in academic circles.

However, despite the signs of acceptance of the two genres in post-Arab Spring Tunisia, rap, and particularly Mizoued artists, continue to face marginalization and prejudice. This is where theorists such as Bourdieu help to understand the dynamics and interplay between the individual and society through the concepts of habitus, capital, and field. Bourdieu claims that individuals, including artists, are free to choose their trajectories, but their actions remain bound by socio-political factors.

While no one can deny the role of music and language in revolutions, it is difficult to predict their future roles in Tunisia’s challenging, unprecedented walk towards a fragile yet sustained democracy.