Interview with Palestinian Rapper, Phay

Editorial Note: This interview is part of our coverage on the film Kneecap. Through this interview we intend to spotlight an artist, who, like the band Kneecap, uses her cultural identities to express herself while challenging the world around her.

In West Belfast, a Palestinian flag hangs from a balcony — a lasting shot in the film Kneecap that captures the notion of existence as resistance. This small act of solidarity connects borders, reminding us how simply existing can be an act of resistance. It's with this image in mind that we sit down with Phay, an Atlanta-based Palestinian-American rapper whose music has become a powerful voice for his people. His story, like that of the Irish rappers in Kneecap, shows us how art can preserve culture and identity when the world tries to erase them.

Kneecap follows the rise of an Irish-language rap group in early 2000s Belfast. As the band navigates the music scene, their identities, and politics, we see their lyrics which serve as a linguistic act of defiance, preserving and celebrating a unique cultural heritage. The film leaves you hungry for more, questioning what drives an artist to create and what sparks the fire of resistance. Inspired by these themes, we sat down with Phay to hear his story, one that champions the spirit of resilience exhibited in Kneecap and shows the power of art as a form of resistance.

Born in Chicago and raised in Atlanta, Phay's roots go back to Jenin. This double identity — American-born, Palestinian at heart — is fundamental to Phay’s art, and his activism. "I'm Palestinian. I'm very proud to be Palestinian, but I know that I didn't choose my heritage," Phay reflects, his words filled with knowledge not learned from textbooks, but inherited through family. "My identity is a very complex thing. I'm not just Arab, not just American, but a mix of everything. I think my story is unique, and not one that's been told before."

Phay's journey began at 16 years old. "Back in that day, we didn't have the plug and play equipment that is, you know, prevalent now," he recalls. "You had to, you know, really hook up all this hardware, not even software, into your desktop and stuff like that. And the songs sucked, of course," he laughs, modestly recalling his early attempts with impressive self-awareness. "It sucked for a long time, until it was digestible, I guess."

Growing up, Phay balanced working at his family's restaurant with his passion for music, feeling pressures familiar to many first-generation immigrants "In an Arab household, or in a first-generation household, there are really only three noble careers in the eyes of our parents," he explains. "And it's being a doctor or an engineer or, like, working in finance or something... being an artist wasn't one of those things." As Phay puts it, "In our culture, your worth especially as a man is to get married and provide for a family." This traditional view of success and masculinity often clashed with Phay's artistic aspirations. "My mom often used to talk to me and say, 'Hey, when are you getting married? And when are you going to get a real job?'

His parents, having come to America as refugees and sacrificing so much to ensure comfort for their children, naturally prioritized stability. "They just want us to be okay financially," Phay reflects. "My mom still doesn't see, to this day, music as a career, which, to be honest with you, it's not, but also what career is secure?"

Despite the differences, Phay's parents have always been supportive. "My parents are amazing people. They sacrificed so much for me and I’m beyond grateful for it. I revere my parents more than anyone else," he says. However, it took time for them to fully understand the power of his music as a form of power and advocacy.

The release of "Watermelon Seeds," Phay’s first song about Palestine, marked a turning point. As the song gained recognition, his parents witnessed the impact of his art. Phay shares, "I know my parents are proud of the music, because, you know, there are some people in the community whose kids listen to my music." This pride was only magnified when Rolling Stone featured Phay and his work. His father, who immigrated in the late '70s or early '80s, had a special connection to the magazine. "He told me he remembered collecting Rolling Stones articles," Phay recounts. "And for that to be a complete full circle moment for him to where his son was now had an editorial write up in Rolling Stone magazine.”

This recognition went beyond typical definitions of success. It wasn't just about financial security; it was about giving voice to his people. "Especially ‘Watermelon Seeds’ when that came out. And specifically, and I don't like harping on accolades or anything like that, but I got a Rolling Stone write up for that song. For our people." Phay recalls, the significance evident in his voice.

Born on a flight back from Houston, the lyrics came out with ease, breaking through a wall of writer's block that had kept his feelings about Palestine bottled up. "Watermelon Seeds" is more than just a song — it's a declaration of existence, a refusal to be silenced or forgotten. Just as the Palestinian flag hanging from a West Belfast balcony in Kneecap exists as a silent act of solidarity, Phay's music is a declaration of identity, waving proudly in the face of those who refuse to see Palestinians as people.

"This isn't a political record. This is a humanitarian record," Phay insists, his words cutting through the noise of geopolitics to reach the heart of the matter. "I say, there are kids and innocent children and women and men dying in a genocide. I'm stating facts. There's no 'Oh, red or blue' or 'I'm, you know, anti this or pro that.' I'm giving you facts of what's happening."

In this, he shares a kinship with Kneecap, whose use of the Irish language exists beyond politics to become a pure expression of cultural identity. Both Phay and Kneecap understand that their very existence — as Palestinian-American and Irish-language artists respectively — is inherently political in a world that often seeks to erase these identities.

This burden of speaking for an entire people is one he shares with countless artists from marginalized communities. But with this responsibility comes a deeper connection to his identity. Phay speaks of a "heightened sense of pride" he feels in standing up for his people. "I feel this sense of responsibility, especially for being a little bit more in the public eye than the average person," he admits. "We don't come from an individualistic society... if you go out and do somebody dirty, that's your family name, and you're shaming your parents, and you're shaming other people that you love as well."

"When you see your own people dying, it's a psychological thing," he says, his voice heavy with the pain of watching his people suffer. "One thing in psychology, they say that people feel empathy, or more empathy, to those who look like them. So psychologically speaking, you're more likely to help somebody on the street who needs help that looks like you." Phay's art stands as a form of resistance against those that seek to silence Palestinian identity, doubling as a reminder that culture cannot be silenced by borders or bullets.

Phay's creative process is deeply collaborative. He speaks warmly of working with Mando, a producer from Zambia, and a Malaysian artist who created the artwork for "Watermelon Seeds." "I'm just the voice on the record," Phay says humbly. "You know, there's so many different moving parts. I'm kind of just like the face, but it's kind of like the face of a business, right?"

This collaborative energy envelopes all of his performances, where Phay works with a band of skilled musicians. "My band is basically, they're a church band," he explains. "They play in the Baptist Church. So my keyboard players, you know, a trained pianist that plays in the church, and I have a bass player and stuff like that. And the musicality is just, it's so authentic to me."

As Phay looks to the future, working on his next album, he considers the stories of his people. "I want the art to be a mirror of the Palestinian soul," Phay declares. In this mirror, we see reflected not just the pain of a people long oppressed, but a defiant spirit that will never be defeated. Phay's music shows that true resistance often takes many forms, sometimes in large movements, but also in the simple, powerful act of existing, of creating, of refusing to be forgotten. 

Phay closes off our conversation with a powerful truth: "I want ‘Watermelon Seeds’ to be a testament to the resilience, strength, and beauty of the Palestinian people. These are not just lyrics; they are the heartbeat of a community that has faced unspeakable challenges."

In the face of oppression, the greatest act of defiance is to create, to speak, to make art — to insist, with every beat, that you exist, and your stories will be heard. From the streets of Palestine to studios in Atlanta, the global spirit of resistance persists.