How Rapper and Poet Omar Offendum Is Celebrating the Long History of Arab Americans in the US

Laith Majali

Throughout April, we're honoring the ancient Arab tradition of hakawatis, or storytellers, highlighting the writers, performers, and poets who are driving the conversation around what it means to be Arab American today—and celebrating the rich culture and histories of the diaspora.

“Poetry is the backbone of our language, culture, and heritage,” says rapper and poet Omar Offendum. Born in Saudi Arabia to Syrian parents and raised in Northern Virginia, he roots much of his own contemporary work in an ancient Arab art form: “We have an old and beautiful tradition of storytelling called hakawati in Damascus. People would walk into cafes and listen to an orator, often telling stories that were parables with lessons on life or with political, religious, and spiritual dimensions.”

Offendum’s own storytelling has taken him from Sydney to Helsinki, from Malaysia to Tunisia—and from a residency at the Shangri La Museum in Hawaii to the performances at a World Cup stadium in Doha. But perhaps his most ambitious project is the beautifully mounted Little Syria, which returns to New York this July with shows at Joe’s Pub. Alongside Palestinian American ethnomusicologist and oud musician Ronnie Malley and Syrian American DJ/producer Thanks Joey, he takes on the role of hakawati in a uniquely Arab American way, blending rap, poetry, old Arabic records, archival news reports, and original compositions to bring to life a thriving Arab American community in lower Manhattan a century ago. Offendum’s own family heirlooms make up the atmospheric set, and he worked with Palestinian designer Zaid Farouki on his outfit: a blue taffeta suit. “It’s a fabric that was developed in Baghdad in the 12th century,” he says. “Blue is the color of mourning in our region, and here I am telling you the story of this neighborhood that no longer exists.”

What also doesn’t exist is the Syria he once knew so well—Syrians in diaspora are cut off from their heritage, so preserving it in an Arab American context is essential. “It's bittersweet, I'll be honest,” he says of the Damascus room at Honolulu’s Shangri-La, a space honoring the city’s 18th- and 19th-century history. “The fact that I can't go back to Syria means that that's the closest I can get—7,000 miles away in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.”

Condé Nast Traveler spoke with Offendum about how he preserves age-old storytelling traditions in a uniquely American way, and some of the other talents defining contemporary Arab American culture today.

How did you find yourself bridging Arabic music with hip-hop?

I'd be studying Arabic poetry in school and listening to hip-hop on the bus, so that juxtaposition led to who I am today. My initial foray was sampling old music my parents used to listen to and setting it to hip-hop beats. In hip-hop culture there already existed this reverence for Islamic culture—there were many influential MCs who were either Muslim or influenced by Islam. Making those parallels was a big part of growing up in DC, where decisions in a think tank office could have a profound impact on the lives of millions of people where I'm from.

How has your approach to storytelling evolved over your 20-year career?

When I was studying architecture at University of Virginia, 9/11 happened—that had a big impact on how I understood my role vis-à-vis art and music and realizing I could use this platform to speak to bigger issues in a direct way. From the beginning, as much as it was me pushing back against the framing of us as terrorists or extremists, I would always maintain that it's not so much about who we’re not as much as it is about who we are. In my earliest projects, I translated poetry from some of my favorite Arab poets into rap songs. I incorporated storytelling very early on—the story of Majnoon Layla was on my first album—and continued with that through till today. The Little Syria project was born out of a desire to remind people that Arab Americans, and specifically Syrian Americans, have been here for 150 years. In the lower west side of Manhattan were some of the greatest poets and writers that the Arabic speaking world has known. Kahlil Gibran is the third highest selling poet in human history.

Tell me more about Little Syria.

What I'm essentially doing with Little Syria is remembering this neighborhood and this experience that no longer has any real markers to show for it. I was a fellow at the Kennedy Center when I first started working on the project. I have connections with the Arab American National Museum, which has a wonderful archive, and North Carolina State’s Khayrallah Center for Lebanese Diaspora Studies has done a great job of archiving a lot of the old newspapers from the neighborhood—it was a highly literate community that published dozens of newspapers in Arabic and English. Digging through archives, having the good fortune of being able to read both in Arabic and English, and being able to relate to a lot of the experiences as an immigrant, as a Syrian, as somebody who has a love for art and literature—seeing a reflection of my experience from 100 years ago was pretty cool. Reading some of the headlines from New York City in the 1890s, it's almost as if they were lifted from today: “Syrians must go back. Arabs not wanted.” All kinds of anti-immigrant sentiment, which sadly is still pervasive. At a time when the rhetoric surrounding the campaign for Donald Trump's presidency was very specifically anti-Syrian, anti-refugee, anti-immigrant, anti-Muslim, this was a way for me to refocus my energy, to really root myself here.

Who are some inspiring Arab American storytellers we should be paying attention to?

In New York City, Felukah is really great. She's a young, up-and-coming Egyptian rapper and singer. Nibal Malshi was raised in Palestine but lives in Dallas; she has performed with the National Arab orchestra and does very beautiful traditional Palestinian music. Clarissa Bitar is a Palestinian oud player and music producer based in Southern California—we're performing together in April for Arab American Heritage Month in New Jersey. In comedy, Ramy Youssef is amazing, he’s really opened up a lot of doors, and Mo Amer is a dear friend. I love the success of his Netflix show. Then there’s chefs I’m really excited about. Reem Assil is awesome—she’s half Syrian, half Palestinian, Bay Area-based, very, very community oriented. Her food is almost like the way I am with my music, it's both authentic and forward thinking. I really appreciate how she is also very much an activist through food, whether it's Palestinian history or labor rights in America and making sure that the people who work with her are treated fairly and respected. Her bread is incredible—I love that she cares so deeply about bread as the foundation of our food experiences.

You’ve lived in a lot of places—DC, New York, LA. What are some of your favorite Syrian spots in each?

While I'm very proud of being Syrian, I'm equally proud of the Arab American culture. In DC, there's a really awesome cafe called Yellow by Michael Rafidi, it’s amazing. I brought the baklava croissant back with me to New York. Then there’s Maydan for more upscale dining; I love the architecture, the way you walk in and don't expect it, it's kind of hidden. In New York, Tanoreen, a Palestinian restaurant, has been in Bay Ridge for a long time. They have legendary knafeh. Rawia Bishara is the patron, even in her older age she walks around tables and greets people and makes sure everybody's taken care of. There’s also Syko in Brooklyn—I love Syrian and I love Korean, and I'm super happy that they're getting people excited about fusing cultures in a cool way. In LA you have the whole Little Arabia experience in Anaheim, with lots of really great restaurants. But one of the things that I get nostalgic about is what I believe to be the best fast food shawarma place. It's called Zankou. It’s a Lebanese-Armenian family-owned chain all over Southern California. Get the chicken tarna, the garlic sauce is epic.

Originally Appeared on Condé Nast Traveler