Habibi, come to TikTok: Culture for Clout

On 19 January last year, Grammy-winning artist Rosalía set the internet abuzz as she vibed to as she vibed to the infectious beat of Basbousa at Louis Vuitton Men’s Autumn/Winter 2023 fashion show in Paris. This unexpected cultural moment sent Arabs across the globe into a frenzy, watching in awe as clips from the show gained viral momentum. The whole crossover felt like a fever dream, so much so that many comments were filled with scepticism, suggesting the clips might be edited or fabricated. This, however, wasn’t the tune’s first brush with fame. Back in 2021, El Maestro Muhammed Elsheikh’s remix dominated TikTok, notching over 500.5k posts using his sound. The song, lip-synced and danced to by major non-Arab TikTok influencers like  Quen Blackwell, Izzy Tube, Basement Gang, Skai Jackson and, most famously EHIZ, had already made its indelible mark on the platform.

Fast forward to this year, Sherine’s Kalam Eneih has taken TikTok by storm, racking up over 500k posts and propelling the 2018 track onto  Billboard Arabia top charts for months. This resounding success among non-Arab TikTokers showcases a genuine enthusiasm for Arab music, with many attempting to sing along to her hits – albeit often in broken Arabic.

These songs have sparked genuine interest and engagement beyond lip-syncing and dancing. Many TikTok users made an effort to learn the lyrics, much to the delight of Arabs everywhere. There’s this undeniable energy that we feel when seeing non-Arabs embracing our culture. It’s refreshing, and it gets us hyped.

But since when did being Arab become ‘cool’? It feels like a significant shift, one that prompts us to reflect on the cultural dynamics that have long shaped our identities. For many of us Arab kids growing up, myself included, being Arab has never been synonymous with ‘cool’ or ‘trendy’. If anything, living in a post-9/11 world gripped by the ‘green scare’ and imaginaries of us through lenses of barbarism and violence, we grew up internalising a Western gaze – simultaneously shaming ourselves while idolising the Western kids and their picket-fenced lifestyles penetrating our screens. 

With the effects of rapid digitisation decentralising the one-sided flow of influence and the advent of social platforms like TikTok, things have only begun to change, yet the remnants of toxic self-perception linger. So, witnessing a global fascination with our culture, with people dancing to our songs and celebrating our traditions, can feel both vindicating yet baffling, maybe even a bit dystopic. 

Beyond moments of enjoyment – whether it’s songs, dances or dabke challenges – a few questions arise: How deeply are these new fans engaging with the ongoing realities of the region? Are they simply tuning in to the fun while ignoring the political struggles that the region has been facing? Can one truly enjoy listening to a country’s songs without hearing the struggle of its people? Is this newfound interest genuinely celebratory,
or could it become harmful?

It’s as if there’s a fascination with being part of Arab culture – yet a reluctance to truly engage with it. The internet has allowed for the seemingly ever-lasting fetishisation and exoticisation of Arabs to resurface in a new guise – presenting itself in a 16:9 vertical ratio format this time. The old orientalism that played out in colonial biographies and Hollywood blockbusters has taken root in the endless reels of TikTok.

A quick scroll through the “Arab TikTok” hashtag reveals a predictable pattern: non-Arabs donning traditional attire, images of vast deserts and camels, hijabs, henna tattoos and belly dancing. It feels like the world is still missing the lessons of orientalism, recycling these tropes without a second thought. (Sorry, Edward.) This ‘celebration’ of our culture online often veers dangerously close to tokenisation with our attire, our cuisine, our customs. Consider the proliferation of Arab food bloggers who, even when well-intentioned, find themselves catering to an audience that desires aestheticised videos rather than an honest exploration of identity. A recipe for musakhan or makloubeh garners clicks and views, but the cultural significance of these foods is left aside, unexamined. Posting any ‘Palestinian-related’ content is like a task checked off a list, evoking a self-gratification that fosters a shallow connection to the cause. 

One emerging ‘trend’ on TikTok portrays ‘Arab guys’ as a singular stereotype – toxic, macho, possessive and controlling. While these types certainly exist, reducing Arab men from diverse backgrounds and experiences into this one-dimensional caricature is undeniably harmful. In this hyper-stylised interpretation of the ‘Arab man’, he becomes a walking cliché – prompting female TikTokers  (and Arab male TikTokers as well) to create videos that swing from “Never date an Arab man” to “Why you should date Arab men“, often romanticising the very toxicity they’re critical of. Many view Arab men merely as ATMs, perpetuating the idea that we’re all sons of Khaleeji princes with endless wealth. The viral “Habibi, come to Dubai” sound encapsulates this notion perfectly, leading many girls on TikTok to see Arab men through this reductive lens.

The portrayal of Arab masculinity online often feels less like an exploration and more like a staging. What we see on social media is a reflection not of our men, but of a Western fantasy – a hyper-masculine figure defined by tropes of strength, stoicism and exoticised bravado. This simplification carries even more weight in light of the ongoing genocide in Palestine which revealed the compassion, love, and resilience that Palestinian men – brothers, sons, grandfathers and fathers – consistently demonstrate, despite being constantly dehumanised by Western media. These are qualities we’ve always recognised about Arab men, our fathers being our first point of reference, yet it’s disheartening that the broader world, particularly the West, hasn’t fully grasped this fact.

Another tokenising and orientalist example is the Aladdin’s Arabian Nights TikTok trend. The song has made a resurgence on the platform as a trendy sound, where people were using it to ‘transition’ themselves from their everyday looks into something ‘exotically Arab’ – think kuffiyehs, dramatic kohl eyeliner and belly dancing outfits. Sound familiar? These are the same images the West has used to define Arab culture for decades. The fact that this trend draws from one of the most orientalist films only amplifies the issue, as the film was set in Agrabah – a fictional city that doesn’t exist. The children’s film even goes as far as dubbing Agrabah’s residents as ‘barbaric’ in the same said song. Walt Disney Studios changed the lyrics after the film’s theatrical release in 1993, following protests from the American-Arab Anti-Discrimination Committee (ADC). That said, not much has changed around perceptions of Agrabah; in fact, one-third of Republicans in the US voted in support of bombing the fictional city, according to a Public Policy poll published eight years ago. 

The problem isn’t just in the Western gaze itself. Arab creators are compelled to buy into it, reshaping themselves to fit an image that is frequently imposed upon them. They often find themselves caught in an uncomfortable position: participate in the commodification of their own identity or risk irrelevance. Rather than reflecting the true range of our experiences, we are drawn into a cycle of participating in our own othering to appease a Western audience. Self-orientalism highlights a complex dynamic where, in the pursuit of visibility or acceptance, some Arabs lean into the very stereotypes that have historically marginalised us. This internalisation complicates the conversation about cultural representation, as it reflects both a yearning for connection and a concerning willingness to play into reductive narratives.

But why do we, consciously or unconsciously, play along? The answer lies partly in the machinery of social media itself, which rewards certain portrayals and shuns others. The hyper-masculine ‘Arab alpha’ image for example is an easy sell – it’s bold, recognisable and exoticised. In contrast, depictions of men as fathers, poets, community leaders or activists – roles deeply embedded in our societies – are often left to the periphery, deemed too mundane, too real, for a platform driven by spectacle. We are effectively complicit in a narrative that narrows our identity for the sake of digestibility. 

In this system, the Arab influencer is as much a victim as a participant, moulded by an algorithm that amplifies the aspects of their identity that appeal to the ‘exotic’ and discards the rest. Meanwhile, the weight of Arab existence – the wars, the genocides, the displacement, the resistance, the resilience – are left to linger in the background, ignored by an audience that prefers the palatable to the profound. The algorithm, in its cold impartiality, is a tool of dehumanisation, reducing our people to pixels, and valuing only those fragments of our identity that contribute to the social media economy. In this landscape, we become content, stripped of agency and depth, valuable only in as much as we are consumable.

In the current expanse of social media, Arab identity occupies a strange, liminal space and is repackaged into consumable fragments, whether as images of suffering or entertainment. You’ll come across a comedy sketch about Arab mothers, next to a sombre video of a child under the rubble, all in the same breath. The result is a strange, dissonant experience of a digital world that mirrors our own in a way that is so painfully striking and evident.

The rise of Arab TikTok could signal a significant cultural shift – a movement towards a more multi-directional flow of influence in global culture, despite being hindered by the platform’s algorithm. This movement should still spark hope and encourage us to reflect on the stories we’re telling, and those that we must tell. The digital realm, after all,is a mirror of our reality, offering us a vital opportunity to examine our place as Arabs in the world and how we are perceived. Engaging with this space with authenticity and care means dismantling stereotypes and ultimately reclaiming our narratives. May we take down the master’s house with the very tools that the master made it.

Originally published in Dazed MENA Issue 00 | Order Here