MOHAMMED AL-SALAFI

While in Lagos earlier this year, I came across a work titled "The Freedom Deficit" curated by Between the Borders—an open collective of people with and without citizenship in the UK. It is a series of poems, photo collages and collaborative pieces, focusing on the discourse of migration and people movement. The piece that stood out the most was the one about the Kru People, an ethnic group indigenous to the south-eastern coastal areas of Liberia.

The Kru were the most widely employed Africans on naval and trading ships, hence where the name Crew was derived from. The Krumen's leisure time, both on board ships and in the ports, gave them occasion to tell tales and play music. Thanks to travels and interactions with different peoples, the Kru gathered unique stories and were exposed to new experiences and ideas. They also gained wealth, which allowed them to acquire goods, most notably musical instruments such as accordions, harmonicas, and, most importantly, the acoustic guitar.

The Kru's songs were vastly influential. Singing in Pidgin English, their lyrics were understandable for most West African populations. Kru music is said to have given birth to Palmwine Music, which in turn inspired several West African genres, including Sierra Leone's Maringa, Nigeria's Jujú, and Ghana's Highlife.

Researchers call this "musical confluence", when old and new elements of music merge to create a new interethnic experience. This is a fascinating process and a beautiful, yet indirect, result of the movement of people.

Over the last few months, I've been immersed in Cheb Mami's discography, from his mid-80s recordings, all the way up to his early 2000s releases. This tea-candle-Mami ritual led to a profound discovery of the universe of Raï music and the artists behind it.

After listening to all the Chebs and Chebas across different eras, one theme stands out: the layers in the sound and the yearning in the writing. In its early days, Raï was a form of Algerian folk music, built on vocals, flute, and percussion—sounds deeply embedded in local culture. Icons such as Cheikha Rimitti are a major reference for how Raï was performed in its early days. Rimitti belonged to a generation that treated music as a cultural practice, heard commonly at weddings, celebrations, and rituals. In 1978, she moved to France, forced to leave by increasing restrictions from local authorities—a fate shared by many Algerian youth pursuing dreams across the Mediterranean. This raises a compelling question: what happens when the musician becomes an immigrant?

As soon as the 1980s arrived, Raï began evolving with contemporary instruments and sounds, but its core remained unchanged: stories of life, love, sorrow, and the longing for home across the sea. Born in Oran, a city in northwestern Algeria known for its rich musical tradition and waves of migration, Raï produced artists like Cheb Khaled, Cheba Fadela, and Cheb Tati, as well as nearby icons such as Rachid Taha and Cheb Mami. This generation grew up familiar with the realities of immigration to Europe, navigating the hardships of life in the far north, feeling the ache of distance while thriving creatively. When Algerian music crossed into France, it gave rise to a new Raï sound that reflected the interplay of place and generation. It became funkier and more multilingual, evident in Rimitti's later music, particularly her all-time banger NOUAR, which expanded from pure folk to embrace piano, guitar, and synthesiser elements.

The experience of exile, estrangement, and longing for home emerged as a central theme, embraced even by Raï singers who never left Algeria. The genre's evolution is inseparable from the immigrant experience, shaped and amplified by its growing popularity across France and beyond. Unlike other '80s pop music, Raï uniquely captured migration as a theme. If the decade was defined by "Sex, Drugs, and Rock 'n' Roll" for the West, for North Africans it was "Exile, Belonging, and Raï."

Not all migrants make music the same way. One can distinguish between first, second, and third-generation immigrants. While it's arguable that immigrant children are in a strong position to fuse sounds and instruments, it takes a large wave of first-generation migrants, roughly a decade of adjusting to a new land, and a socio-economic turning point to produce a sound that is both culturally rooted and sonically daring. A case in point is the second wave of Raï, where the music evolved from folk to pop-synth.

When examining immigration data, particularly for the Algeria-France corridor, it is notable that migration stock can be traced back to 1912. However, the largest increase occurred between 1970 and 1990, a period following independence and the advent of family reunification. Imagine the flow of emotions: independence, liberation, yet you still seek to migrate to what was once your coloniser. You are free, but barely. It must feel strange and alienating. It's no surprise, then, that the '80s and '90s produced a wealth of music lyrically steeped in themes of home and ghorba (estrangement).

Ten years on from Europe's migration influx, with millions displaced and socio-economic shifts reshaping communities, is a new music emerging? One that is deeply resonant, culturally rooted, and sonically daring? Writing this piece from Berlin, the answer is all around.

Today's social media, virality, and migrant movement have unlocked a new level of cross-cultural collaboration, fueling a wave of music shaped by the diaspora. It could come from anywhere. It could go anywhere. A new sound must be travelled. A new sound must be felt. Do we love it or hate it? Either way, it moves effortlessly across borders and barriers, carrying both memory and reinvention.