Born in Kuwait with roots in Lebanon and Palestine, Etaf spent years navigating a life that never quite felt like theirs. A PhD in law might look good on paper, but their heart was always somewhere else—music. Now based in London, the rising Kuwaiti artist traded legal briefs for song lyrics, telling their story in their own raw, unapologetic way.
Etaf’s journey was anything but smooth sailing. In their society, being an AFAB (assigned female at birth) in music is more than frowned upon—it’s downright revolutionary. “Doing music in the Arab region, or at least in my culture, is a taboo. But being an Etaf and doing music is even more taboo,” they tell MILLE, with a candidness that’s become part of their signature style.
Their music hits hard, unapologetically raw, tackling topics that most would shy away from. Losing their sister—a fellow singer-songwriter—two years ago was the catalyst that pushed them to finally live for themselves. “I decided to do what I really love because I have so much to say, so much to write about,” they explain. And once they made that decision, there was no looking back.
Etaf’s rise hasn’t been glamorous; it’s been gritty. They cut their teeth on the dingiest stages London has to offer—no pay, playing alongside other artists just trying to catch a break. They fondly recall their first gig at Water Rats, a notorious pub in central London. “It made so much sense,” they say. “I always knew the right time would come for me.”
Their connection to music goes way back. At just 11, their mother was the first to notice their talent, despite the strict cultural boundaries around music in their home. “Music was super haram at the time,” they recall, but their mom cautiously encouraged them to sing—within the privacy of their home, of course. It was a small moment, but it planted a seed that took years to flourish.
Growing up, their Palestinian heritage was always something distant, more of a whispered conversation than a proud declaration. “Talking about Palestine was taboo. I didn’t feel like I learned anything about it through school or family. The only connection I had to Palestine was through food, thanks to my grandmother.” It wasn’t until the recent violence in Gaza that they stumbled upon Palestinian artists like Sabreen, whose authenticity struck a chord with them. “They inspire me. Their music is so authentic, so original,” they say.
Authenticity is something Etaf knows all about. Their music doesn’t sugarcoat anything. “I don’t write poetic things. I don’t have time for that,” they say, dismissing any notion of dressing up their emotions in metaphor. Etaf’s song Small Details is a prime example. It’s unfiltered and bold, causing quite a stir—especially among men from their culture. “They hated it, and to me, that’s a success in itself. It shook people up.” The track’s opening line, “Listen, all of my people and Khaleeji woman, I’m about to share the story of us,” gives you a taste of the fire Etaf is bringing to the table.
That fire also burns bright when they talk about their anger toward oppressive systems. “I have deep, long anger in me about the system we live under. I’ve been really impacted by patriarchy, like everyone else. It makes me angry, and I think that’s a healthy feeling if you can channel it creatively,” they explain. Their music is their rebellion, their way of saying, “I’m here, and I won’t be quiet.”
Their body? Also a battlefield. Online trolls love to tell them what to do—everything from “Shave your armpits” to “Brush your hair.” Their response? “I’m just not interested in that. I won’t change. I won’t wear any masks. I’m allergic to that.”
Etaf’s journey to self-acceptance hasn’t been easy. They fought both internal and external battles, one of the biggest being their decision to stop wearing the hijab. “Coming closer to myself meant facing society’s rejection. It’s been a negotiation,” they admit. Moving to London wasn’t about escaping their Arab identity—it was about discovering it. “I didn’t run away from being Arab. In fact, I feel more Arab than ever. I just needed a space where I could find out who I really am.”
Their most recent release, Bad Influence, is a deeply personal Arabic track about relationships that crumbled as they became more themselves. It’s a middle finger to anyone who didn’t stick around. “The closer I get to myself, the more I become a threat. And I say to those people, ‘F*** you and goodbye.’ It feels so good to say it,” they laugh.
In an industry that often dilutes individuality, Etaf isn’t having any of it. “What I bring to the table isn’t just the music—it’s my story, my lived experiences, and my voice as a queer, Arab AFAB who refuses to conform.” Music, for them, is a space to be limitless, where every song is a story that needs to be heard.
And as for the critics and the haters? They’re not here for them. Etaf is here for themselves, their community, and anyone brave enough to listen. After all, they’re not here to please anyone–they’re here to be heard.
