Thikra Mohamed, the Tunisian Icon Who Left Us Too Soon

Her death was a tragedy, but her life was a gift.

Some moments in life leave marks that never fade, both in our personal memories and in the collective memory of a nation. The morning of Nov. 29, 2003, is one of those moments for Tunisia, and the Arab world. It was the day we lost Thikra Mohamed, one of the North African country’s brightest and most soulful singers, in a tragedy that is hard to believe even now. On the night before, her husband, Ayman Al-Suwaidi, an Egyptian businessman, shot her with a submachine gun. He fired 15 bullets (you read this right) and with that, he silenced a voice that had touched millions of hearts.

In the days that followed, millions tuned into Rotana TV for tributes and reports honoring Mohamed’s extraordinary career and indomitable spirit. A rare talent whose vocal range and emotional depth drew comparisons to legends like Umm Kulthum and Warda El-Jazaeiriya, for many, she symbolized hope for the revival of Arab music’s golden age.

For Tunisians like me, she was even more than that. Thikra was brave. She dreamed big and worked hard to make her dreams real. She wasn’t afraid to step beyond Tunisia’s borders and share her voice with the world. She sang for audiences across the Gulf, Egypt, and the Levant. Few artists from the Maghreb have done what she did, and it made us so proud. Her success wasn’t just hers; it felt like ours too.

But behind all her success, there was danger. The man who should have been her biggest supporter became her killer. Why? We can only guess, but it’s a story we know too well: when women are strong, successful, and independent, some men feel threatened. The late singer’s story is not just about one person or one act of violence, but about how society still struggles to accept women who shine too brightly.

Tunisia itself recalls another hauntingly similar story: Habiba Msika, the 27-year-old diva of the 1920s, dubbed “The Magician of Hearts,” who was burned alive by a jealous ex-lover unable to accept her independence. Both Msika and Mohamed share a tragic thread—brilliance and ambition that made them targets in societies struggling to accept unapologetically successful women.

What connects these stories is fear—fear of women’s freedom, fear of their independence. Men like Mohamed’s husband see a woman’s success as a challenge to their power, and they react with violence. They don’t want to share the spotlight; they want to control it. It’s not just personal; it’s part of something bigger. It’s about how society treats women who refuse to be small, quiet, or invisible.

But Mohamed’s life is not just about how it ended. She was born on Sep. 16, 1966, in a small town called Wadi al-Layl in Tunisia. Her family believed in her talent, especially her father. He encouraged her to follow her passion for music, and in 1983, she won the “Fan wa Mawahib” competition. Her voice was so powerful, so full of emotion, that it touched everyone who heard her. That was just the beginning.

In the 1990s, she moved to Cairo, the heart of Arab music. She knew that was where she had to be to reach her full potential. Her first Egyptian album, Wehyati Andak, came out in 1995 and was a huge success. She wasn’t just singing; she was creating something new. Thikra could sing in different Arabic dialects—Egyptian, Gulf, Tunisian—and she made each one sound beautiful. Her songs, like Asfah, Yana, and Liket Raasi, mixed traditional mawwals with modern melodies, and everyone loved them.

Even now, after all these years, her music lives on. Her voice still gives us goosebumps. Her songs still remind us of who we are, and they inspire new artists to dream big, just like she did.

But we must do more than just remember her. We have to talk about why this happened. We have to ask why women like Thikra, who are talented and strong, are seen as a threat. We have to change the way we think about women’s independence and success. Her death was a tragedy, but her life was a gift. Let’s not let her story fade away.

Share this article