Arabizi, sometimes called A-pop, is more than a genre. It’s a cultural remix born from the Arab diaspora, where multiple languages like English, Arabic, and French flow in the same sentence, and oud riffs live next to R&B beats.
It reflects a generation raised between worlds, who’ve always felt a little in-between. For third-culture kids, Arabizi isn’t just music, it’s home.
This sound didn’t come from nowhere; it’s the next chapter of something much older. The same ache in Saint Levant’s verses lives in the poetry of Mahmoud Darwish and Mourid Barghouti.
The longing, the fragmentation, the idea of belonging everywhere and nowhere, Arabizi just puts it to a beat. Here are five modern artists defining the sound.
Saint Levant
Saint Levant was born in Jerusalem to a French-Algerian mother and Serbian-Palestinian father during the Second Intifada. For Saint Levant, Palestine is always home, but the feeling isn’t simple.
In “From Gaza, With Love”, he admits, “I’d feel like a tourist if I ever went back.” It’s a hard truth, one that feels almost like betrayal, but that’s exactly why it hits.
Arabizi gives space to these contradictions, to love a place deeply and still feel the weight of distance due to forced exile.
In “5am in Paris,” he captures the essence of a fragmented identity with the line: “Mon corps à Paris, mon coeur à Gaza, mon âme à Algiers”. It translates to “My body in Paris, my heart in Gaza, my soul in Algiers.”
Each part of him is scattered across different geographies, reflecting a deep sense of displacement where the physical, emotional, and spiritual self are rooted in entirely different places.
Bayou
Bayou considers himself “Never at Home.” An Egyptian raised in London, his music lives in the in-between.
In “Egyptian Wifey,” Bayou drops an emotional ode to the women who shaped him, the ones who made him who he is. But it’s deeper than just a shoutout.
For Bayou, Egyptian women aren’t just people; “they’re symbols of home itself”. “Egyptian Wifey” feels like it’s lowkey an ode to Egypt too, not just its women.
You can feel it in lyrics like: “بعدت عنك وشفت كتير. رميت سلام, رجعت ليكي من غير تفكير” which roughly translates to, “I got distant from you and saw so much, I said goodbye, came back to you without a second thought.”
It’s like he’s not just singing to someone, he’s singing to a whole homeland he can’t let go of.
Lana Lubany
Palestinian-American artist Lana Lubany makes genre-bending bangers that feel like full-circle moments.
In “YAFA“, she takes it home, literally, referencing her ancestral city, the olive trees, and the key, a symbol held by Palestinians since their exile in 1948.
These aren’t just metaphors, they’re memories passed down, sacred fragments of a home not seen but deeply felt.
“They say home is where the heart is
But what if you don’t have one?”
A sentiment that captures the ache of inherited exile. Her sound may be slick and cinematic, but the heart of it is raw and rooted.
Zeina
Another artist riding the Arabizi wave is Zeina Mates, a trilingual queen of Egyptian and Lebanese descent, raised in Montreal. Her music blends English, Arabic, and French like it’s second nature, in tracks like “No More Streetivities.”
It’s not just about the sound, it’s about identity, layers, and repping where you’re really from, even if it’s three places at once.
In her video for “Whatever,” every woman featured is from the MENA region and also calls Montreal home, just like Zeina. It’s a visual love letter to that sense of community third-gen kids are always searching for.
It’s not just about making music; it’s about building space for the in-betweeners, the hyphenated identities, the ones who grew up between cultures and now own it.
Elyanna
Palestinian-Chilean singer Elyanna is another voice shaped by the diaspora, and she’s not afraid to show it.
In tracks like “Callin’ U (Tamally Maak),” she blends English and Arabic so seamlessly, it feels like a conversation between worlds.
She even layers her own lyrics with snippets from Amr Diab’s iconic “Tamally Maak,” a total cultural remix that feels both nostalgic and brand new.
But at other times, she goes all in. In “Ghosn Zeytoun” (Olive Branch), she sings wholly in Arabic, offering a haunting ode to Palestine.
Her voice is soft and angelic, but the message cuts deep. Lines like “In the land of peace, peace is dead” and “I’m sending peace, on an olive branch” feel like whispered heartbreak.
She even took that commitment to the Coachella stage, singing her entire set in Arabic.
Arabizi is a movement. A love letter to the in-between, a space where language blends, borders blur, and identity gets to be messy, proud, and real. These artists are reclaiming narratives, rewriting where “home” can be, and turning generational longing into something loud, raw, and unforgettable.
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