Earlier this month, French rappers Danyl and Zamdane, who are of North African descent, released their much-anticipated first collaboration, Les Zhommes, a track that blends rap and raï influences altogether on a high-speed beat. While the song itself has been well-received from a musical perspective, the visuals from the video clip sparked a storm on social media. Filmed in the private, not to say intimate, setting of a hammam, the two artists, clad only in towels, were met with a wave of homophobic remarks and slurs. Mere minutes after the song’s initial drop on streaming platforms on Oct. 17, comments like “Zamdane, I like you, but this is too homosexual” or “This is the gayest thing ever” flooded X (formerly Twitter), reflecting a deeper issue amongst certain segments of the hip-hop community and the French-Arab bubble. Seemingly unable to conceive any other form of male bonding than hyper-masculine camaraderie, many viewers interpreted the setting of the cover, and ensuing video clip, as a challenge to traditional gender norms and expectations within both rappers’ respective communities.
What’s most striking about the reaction to the recently-released video, and cover, is the ignorance surrounding the cultural significance of hammams in North Africa. Anything but just a simple bathhouse, hammams are spaces made for purification, spirituality, socialization, and even reflection, where men gather to cleanse themselves not just of physical impurities but also of spiritual and social anxieties. As sociologist Abdelwahab Bouhdiba noted, it’s a key institution in the Arab world. “The hammam, through its ambivalence between the sacred and the profane, aligns body and spirit, and preserves the identity of Muslim society under the strain of foreign domination.” Here, he describes the traditional bath house as a place of identity preservation in the face of external domination.
With this information in mind, the decision to set the video in a hammam all of a sudden feels far from accidental. It evokes ancestral practices of purification and introspection, where conversations happen naturally and flow freely. Apparently misunderstood, the silence of the men on screen contrasts now appears to be in stark contrast with all the noise generated online, reflecting a certain level of disconnection between this specific cultural practice and the way it’s perceived by some today.
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Today’s image of the hammam often feels out of touch with the realities of the North African diaspora in France. Many young people, raised in a culture that equates masculinity with strength and hyper-virility, are confronted with a sexualized, exotic view of the steam bath, as well as their culture. And it unfortunately happens to be anything but a new phenomenon. Back in the 19th century, Orientalist painters like Ingres and Gérôme transformed the hammam into a symbol of exoticism, reflecting colonial fantasies of a mysterious, rigid East—usually portrayed as a place of feminine sensuality. But in Maghrebi societies, the bath house is above all a place for introspection, purification, and community bonding, where fraternity or sorority takes precedence over any sexualized notions.
Interestingly enough, much of the controversy surrounding Zamdane and Danyl seems to stem from this exact North African diaspora in France as Moroccans, like Algerians, born and raised in their home-countries, have appeared to be less reactive, almost indifferent, to this portrayal. Why such dissonance? Because members of the North African diaspora in France are caught between two worlds—on one side, traditional values that embrace spaces like the hammam as places of male bonding and introspection, and on the other, Western ideas of masculinity shaped by colonial-era exoticism and hyper-virility. As these two visions don’t always align, it creates confusion and discomfort, making the portrayal in the video feel provocative or unsettling to those navigating both identities.
Beyond the controversy, Les Zhommes raises a crucial question: Why such verbal violence towards two artists daring to show a different side of themselves? Danyl and Zamdane remind us that being a man often means being unable to confront vulnerabilities. “If I open up, it’ll traumatize them,” raps Danyl, pointing out his inability to express emotions without judgment out loud. The flood of homophobic comments, and the broader discomfort with seeing two men shirtless in a hammam, exposes a masculinity that feels threatened. “Where we come from, men don’t cry. Being a man is kind of like self-destruction.” Here, they don’t hold back in laying bare the psychological struggles of a generation trying to break free from the heavy weight of social and cultural expectations.
In the end, the controversy surrounding Les Zhommes couldn’t have come at a better time. By setting their video in a hammam, Danyl and Zamdane challenge the usual codes of rap and masculinity, shaking up expectations. Their track serves as a reminder of the urgent need to deconstruct a toxic virility that stifles emotions, in favor of a more open, introspective masculinity capable of dialogue. By tackling these issues head-on, the two rappers risk alienating a public seeking hyper-masculine rap, but at the same time, they create a much-needed space for discussing these often-taboo topics.
