In a quiet garden in Tunis, Mariem Labidi's voice blends with the birdsong. Now and then, she pauses to listen, smiling, before picking up where she left off.
A Tunisian-Argentinian singer, translator, and sound designer, Mariem has lived across continents, built bridges between languages, and sung poetry from Mahmoud Darwish to Tunisian folk classics.
Her work spans five languages and more than a dozen musical genres, yet she insists her art remains rooted in two things: love of sound and the stories it carries.
The New Arab spoke to Mariem Labidi one cool summer morning about exile and belonging, what it means to sing for Palestine in the heart of Buenos Aires, and why she dreams of one day performing in Gaza.
The New Arab: You're a singer, a sound designer, a translator, a writer… How do all these roles coexist in your work?
Mariem Labidi: I wear all these hats because life nudged me there. They weren't always conscious choices, but I've always been drawn to work that fosters creativity. Music came first. It was my entry point. Then came my love for languages.
I lived in Argentina for several years, and I had to survive with the tools I had. My main tool was language, so I learned Spanish. I started working as a conference interpreter, and eventually, I was invited to design sound for a French-language children's project. That's how I learned to conceive audio, and I loved it.
I wouldn't say it's chaos in my head, but it's definitely busy, and there's still room for more. I don't believe we're meant to do just one thing. Each practice nourishes the other. I learn from sound design that deepens my music; translation expands the range of languages I sing in. There are bridges between all of it.
Why Argentina? What drew you there?
It was an incredibly meaningful choice. Argentina is part of the Global South, and I've always felt a strong sense of belonging to that identity. In Argentine music, I heard rhythms that felt deeply familiar, echoes of Africa.
I discovered tango, Argentine folk, and later the sounds of the wider continent: Afro-Peruvian music, Brazilian rhythms and Brazil is almost a continent in itself. All of this shaped me. You can hear it in my first solo album, released in 2022. It blends Arab and Latin rhythms. That fusion is now part of my voice.
You sing in Arabic, Spanish, French, English, and Portuguese. What does that multilingualism give you that one language wouldn't?
Each language holds its own music, its own poetry. Singing in many languages allows me to reach different audiences in their own language. It lets me share the beauty of Arabic with others and introduce Arab audiences to the magic of Spanish or Portuguese.
Every language carries its own emotional weight. When I sing in literary Arabic, I feel like I'm speaking to the entire Arab world. When I sing in Tunisian Arabic, it's my mother tongue, my childhood, my memory, my roots. Spanish, for me, is the language of adulthood and exile. It holds a different poetic sensibility. French is full of finesse and eloquence. Every tongue allows me to express a different part of myself.
In 2016, you became the first Arab singer to perform at Argentina's National Congress on the International Day of Solidarity with the Palestinian People. What did that moment mean to you?
It was deeply symbolic. I was a woman, an Arab, singing for Palestine in a space that hadn't always been openly supportive. Argentina's stance on Palestine is complicated. But I felt proud, and also responsible. I wanted to honour my culture and represent Arab identity with dignity.
I sang (Mahmoud) Darwish that day. I wanted to carry the voice of Palestine into a place where perhaps it hadn't been heard that way before.
Does music change the world? Maybe not directly. But it can change consciousness. Like cinema or any art, it has the power to raise questions, make the invisible seen. It awakens something in the listener, maybe a new awareness, maybe just the comfort of knowing they're not alone.
I don't pretend I have a mission. I sing from personal conviction. If others resonate with it, I'm glad. And if it moves something in the world, even better.
Who inspires you, artists, writers, people in your life? And how is a song born, for you?
I think the first person who truly inspired me was my mother. She isn't a singer. She's a working woman who always brought music into the house. Through her cassette tapes, I discovered so many Arab artists, especially the Tunisian singer Naâma, and greats like Umm Kalthoum.
My mother taught me perseverance, joie de vivre, and how to listen. Later, I explored other genres on my own. I went through a rock phase. It taught me rebellion. French songs gave me a sense of light and graceful poetry. They all shaped my identity.
Inspiration can come from anywhere. I sometimes take a song and reinterpret it in multiple genres depending on where I am emotionally. A melody might stay the same, but how I sing it changes. For example, I recently sang Qaranfoul by Hmida El Gimi, a Tunisian song I've known for 20 years, in a bossa nova style. That shift reflects how I've changed, too.
Life, travel, experience, they all change how I interpret sound.
Are you working on anything new?
Yes, two projects, actually. I'm preparing an album based on contemporary Tunisian poetry, with plans to include other Arab poets too. If anyone reading this wants to share their words with me, I'd be thrilled.
I'm also collaborating with Erbil Hamza, a Tunisian musicologist and pianist, on a project that connects Africa and Latin America. She's lived in Mexico as well, so we share a common rhythm.
I don't want to reveal too much yet, but it's called Africa Latina — a blend of Africa and América Latina. We're planning to tour across the Arab world and beyond in 2026.
You move between continents: Tunis and Buenos Aires. What would you want to pass on to young artists in Tunisia, Africa, Latin America?
If there's anything I hope to transmit, it's a love of words, of poetry. Styles can change, music evolves with time, with technology, with place. But if we can keep a thread of beauty in our lyrics, even in love songs, even with humour, that would be something.
We can be lighthearted, we can dance but we can still say something meaningful. A certain elegance in expression, a joy in language – that's what I'd love to pass on.
And if you could sing in any place in the world, where would it be?
Let me dream for a second (she laughs). I think the first place that comes to mind is Gaza. When it's open and free. I'd sing something by Mahmoud Darwish. Maybe his poem Beirut:
That's what I long for most.
Basma is The New Arab’s Morocco correspondent, covering local affairs and social and cultural events in the Maghreb region. She began her career as a journalist in a Moroccan anglophone outlet, before joining the New Arab in 2022
Follow her on Instagram: @basmaelatti