The problem isn’t just the West. What can the SWANA community learn from Rosalía’s latest album Lux? 

Growing up in the SWANA diaspora, I became excited whenever a Western artist drew inspiration from or celebrated our culture. It felt like a breath of fresh air, a quiet sigh of relief. For once, we were not being targeted but acknowledged, somewhat more equitably, whenever a prominent Western figure expressed interest in Islam or elements of Arab culture. To this day, I am convinced this is why older members of the community – particularly the aunties in WhatsApp group chats – remain so captivated by figures like Michael Jackson and Princess Diana. Even their subtle, and sometimes unverified, interests in the region sparked lively debate within the community.

In recent weeks, among a much younger generation, fascination has centred on Rosalía. Since its release, her latest album, Lux, has racked up 42.1 million streams within 24 hours of its Friday, November 7th debut. These numbers are said to be more than double the first-day streams of her previous album, Motomami, which drew 16 million in 2022. Of course, over the past three years, Rosalía’s fan base has grown stronger and more global, attracting many new listeners to this release.

But there is also something uniquely compelling about Lux – a sense of mystery that listeners are eager to unravel, drawn to the album’s musical and intellectual depth. Part of this intrigue stems from her use of thirteen languages and several religious elements, most notably her incorporation of Sufism, which has sparked immense curiosity and celebration within the SWANA community.

She has explicitly referenced Sufism, citing the eighth-century mystic Rābiʿa al-ʿAdawiyya as a source of inspiration for her songwriting. In an interview with El País, she explained, “When I sing ‘quepo en el mundo y el mundo cabe en mí’ [I fit in the world, and the world fits in me], that’s how I feel. That line is inspired by Rābi’a al-‘Adawiyya, a Sufi mystic whose branch of Islam fascinates me. I love the idea of understanding God for God’s sake, and not out of fear or reward. To approach God for God’s sake.”

The song, partly performed in Arabic, is described by her as a “love letter” to both the Arabic language and the Islamic conception of the soul as a unified, interconnected entity. “The idea that we are all one soul was the inspiration for La Yugular,” she says. “That’s studying Islam and realising, okay, so that’s the foundation of it.” She reinforces this connection by referencing a verse from Surah Qaf (50:16): “We created man and We know what his soul whispers to him, and We are closer to him than his jugular vein.” Before transitioning from Spanish to Arabic, she evokes this verse directly in the lyrics: “You who are far away. And yet closer than ever – than my own jugular vein.”

These lines evoke a profound connection between spirit and humanity, reflecting her engagement with Islam and, more publicly, with Sufism – the branch characterised in the West as the “mystical” or more palatable interpretation of the religion. Through this engagement, she compellingly illustrates the depth and beauty that Islam offers in shaping and elevating the human experience, broadening our understanding of spiritual intimacy and proximity to the divine. Yet some might argue that there is more to be considered beyond admiration alone. While her invocation of Sufism and Islam within such a global album functions as a powerful force for cultural recognition and unity, it also demands careful contextualisation and critical reflection.

Sofiane Si Merabet, French-Algerian artist and author of L’Arabe Confus, has spent nearly two decades examining the complex dynamics of Arab and Islamic cultural representation in the West. He argues that while Rosalía’s engagement with Islamic motifs merits appreciation, it also necessitates critical reflection on how Sufism is understood or portrayed by both Western and non-Western audiences, as well as the collective fascination it continues to inspire. Although Rosalía has made some effort to ground her inspiration in Islam, this is not always the case with Western interpretations of Sufism, and we must remain attentive to how the term is propagated. Rather than uncritically accepting her use of Sufism – as much of the popular press has done without connecting it back to its clear Islamic roots – we should seize the opportunity to understand it as an integral, richly embedded dimension of Islam. We must restore its historical and cultural roots, rather than allowing it to be treated as a generalised spiritual concept “hijacked” or appropriated by Western audiences. 

“I am not criticising Rosalía,” Si Merabet explains. “I don’t want people to feel afraid of celebrating Islam or drawing inspiration from it. What I do want is to encourage deeper reflection and contextual understanding, especially within our own community. Rather than simply celebrating Rosalía’s engagement with Sufism or her invocation of a feminist Islamic figure, we should take this as an opportunity to engage in self-reflection and critical dialogue about our own cultural and spiritual identities.” 

He begins by reminding us that any meaningful engagement with Sufism must start with an understanding of its essence as a spiritual discipline intrinsically rooted in Islamic theology and practice. “What strikes me,” Si Merabet notes, “is how Sufism has gradually been absorbed into Western cultural discourse and reimagined as a softer, more palatable version of Islam. In a world where Islam is, too often, wrongly conflated with jihadism and violence, Sufism is portrayed as a peaceful, kind of domesticated Islam. Yet this process extends beyond desacralisation; it constitutes a de-Islamization of the concept itself. Sufism has been orientalised, stripped of its theological depth and divorced from the Islamic framework that gives it meaning. It is celebrated in isolation from its religious and cultural foundations, and that, to me, is deeply troubling,” he explains. “My concern is not with the engagement with Sufism per se, but with its framing as something external to Islam – when, in truth, Sufism, however contested, is profoundly and inextricably a Muslim tradition.”

For instance, when Rosalía draws inspiration from Rābi a al-Adawiyya, it is important to recognise her not merely as a Sufi but as a seminal figure within Islam and an early emblem of Islamic feminism. “She was a woman born in Iraq and believed to be buried on the Mount of Olives in Jerusalem,” Si Merabet explains. “She should be celebrated as a regional and religious figure, not de-Islamized because of her relationship with Sufism. Born into poverty and enslaved, it was precisely al-ʿAdawiyya’s devotion to Islam that enabled her spiritual and personal liberation…​​I think it is wonderful that Rosalía has drawn on her as a feminist influence; however, it is now our responsibility as listeners to look deeper – to understand her significance within her faith and her region, rather than simply praising Rosalía’s reference and moving on.” 

A notable example of this is the popularisation of Rumi. Over the years, several celebrities and academics have praised his poetry, often citing him as an influence. Yet in the process, by neglecting to situate his work within Islam, his writings have frequently been stripped of their religious significance. “At his core, Rumi was a Muslim scholar, and divorcing his work from that identity diminishes both his intellectual and spiritual contributions – an erasure that is particularly disheartening given his profound importance to the Muslim community.” As Si Merabet observes, this also reinforces a disconnect between the nuanced beauty and diversity of Islam and the reductive stereotypes commonly perpetuated by Western media. While Sufism is celebrated for its peaceful and philosophical dimensions, these qualities are fundamentally rooted in Islamic thought. Failing to acknowledge this relationship not only misrepresents Islam to outsiders but also deprives our own community of a deeper understanding of the history, complexity, and richness of our own region and faith.

Although debates over the use and influence of Islamic figures may reflect the complexities of cultural appropriation, Si Merabet insists that fear should never dominate the conversation. “I would never want artists, or anyone, to feel restricted or fearful in seeking inspiration from Islamic culture. That is not something I advocate. However, I want their engagement to be informed, with a clear grasp of the context, roots, and rationale behind their interest. They must understand that they are engaging directly with the notions and principles of Islam.” 

During our conversation, I asked Si Merabet whether the same arguments could be applied to the use of other religions in art, such as Christianity, which Rosalía frequently references both musically and visually in Lux. “I don’t think it is the same,” he responds. “In terms of desacralisation, sure – both religious groups could technically be offended by the misuse of their traditions. But in terms of stripping something of its cultural context or background, it is very different. In most Western societies, some religious symbols, particularly Christian ones, are widely recognised by audiences. Most people understand the significance of a cross or a Christian saint. Western culture and media have trained audiences to recognise and appreciate that depth.”

He contrasts this with Islam: “It is very different. For decades, we have been vilified and misrepresented. Contextualising our culture and religion is essential – not only for how others perceive us, but for how we understand ourselves. When Western media misappropriates or diminishes Sufism, it sets off a vicious cycle. These misrepresentations shape perceptions within our own communities and reinforce a distorted, imperialistic view of what it means to be Muslim. We are treated as a monolith in every respect, when in reality, our traditions, beliefs, and practices are far more diverse and complex.”

Ultimately, he explains, “Rosalía is an artist, and she is not obligated to provide context for every aspect of her work. No artist should ever feel compelled to explain all their creations or reveal every source of inspiration. As an artist myself, I understand that…I do not believe there was any malintent or misappropriation on her part. Rather, I think she aimed to celebrate the significance of an important Islamic feminist thinker, as she has done with other figures – such as the French philosopher Simone Weil. However, as an audience, particularly as members of the SWANA and Muslim communities, we bear the responsibility to engage with her references, to familiarise ourselves with, and to deepen our understanding of, the cultural concepts artists like her invoke.”

Art invites recontextualisation. It can serve as a starting point for dialogue, an opportunity to deepen our understanding of one another. While questions about Rābi’a al-‘Adawiyya’s influence could certainly be posed to Rosalía herself, Si Merabet emphasises that audiences must also take the initiative to explore and interpret these concepts independently. “This is why, for members of the Muslim community, there is an added responsibility. We must undertake the necessary work to ensure that references to Islam within popular culture are understood in their proper cultural and historical contexts.”

What he is stressing is that we cannot direct criticism solely toward the West without also committing to the necessary introspection within our own communities. How well do we truly understand our own culture and historical figures? And why do we continue to respond with such enthusiasm when artists like Rosalía reference Islam? Despite the significant strides we have made toward empowerment, there clearly remains a persistent desire – or perhaps a search – for global approval. This is not a new phenomenon. Across generations, there has been a recurring preoccupation with the acknowledgement and validation of Islam and Arab culture within Western contexts. While this dynamic is undeniably shaped by decades of stereotyping and imperial oppression, it nevertheless remains crucial to interrogate. 

“Why are we still seeking global approval?” asks Si Merabet. “Why do we wait for celebrities to draw attention to our culture and history? Rosalía may reference Islam, but she cannot bear the responsibility of cultural preservation or education. That duty falls to us, as a community – to reclaim, contextualise, and celebrate our heritage, because we understand its depths and are the ones who truly care about uplifting it. For years, this has been the mission of my platform, ‘The Confused Arab.’ My goal has always been to inspire curiosity about the SWANA region, to encourage inquiry, and to motivate members of our community to read, learn, and engage with our culture.”

Many in the diaspora, as well as within the region, have been heavily exposed to Western culture. “It is often presented to them as the ultimate standard or ‘holy grail,’” explains Si Merabet. “Yet we must recognise that this perception is neither complete nor definitive. Our own heritage possesses immense beauty and depth, and it is our responsibility to actively participate in the cultural reconstruction of our identity on a global scale. Consider, for example, Rābi’a al-‘Adawiyya. Why have so many people in the West, and even within the SWANA community, never been introduced to her work? Why is her legacy more commonly encountered through an album by Rosalía rather than through educational curricula? These are pressing questions that demand reflection.” 

Fortunately, with social media and a growing number of regional media outlets and publications, the tools to explore, reclaim, and share our heritage have never been more accessible. “The power to tell our own story is in our hands,” says Si Merabet. Now, equipped with these tools, we must nurture a sustained curiosity about our own history and culture. We must take advantage of every opportunity to reconnect with who we are. Let us use Rosalía’s album as a catalyst.