Karpé: A Norwegian Duo's Movement of Inclusion through Expressing Forgotten Immigrant Experiences

Personal Commentary

My father excitedly immigrated to Western lands to see me succeed. He sacrificed everything for us. His dreams, autonomy, and language. As well as his koshary, and late-night walks with friends by the Nile.

For what?
For who?

I avoided these questions for 29 years.

The anticipation of his smile for my future sinks me deeper and deeper into an underground club with disco lights on. Such optimism impairs me. I can't possibly face you with the likes of me — with what little I have achieved.

My accomplishments do not compensate for your sacrifice.

Instead, your high-soaring "yalla yalla!"'s and "alright!"'s cast a humbling shadow upon my face. One that relinquishes any ability to kindle the spark you had in your eyes before you came to these both strange and estranging lands.

I don't want to replace your nostalgia with my suits of professionalism. I don't want to replace the smell of figs and mint from your neighbor's garden with my certificates. I don't want to replace your world with mine.

For some reason,

it hurt when I saw you wearing a suit and tie to my graduation — giving me a standing ovation when they called my name. For some reason, it hurt when I heard your high-pitched Salams welcome old friends for BBQ and you told them what degree I majored in. For some reason, it hurts when you bring out old family photos of smiling people I no longer recognize. For some reason, it hurts when you tell me watered-down stories of your childhood — in English.

Like craters on the moon, these meteorites hollow out my identity. Maybe that's why I have such deep eye sockets. They trap my tears like a polluted lake, as I drown within the layers of its ineffable grief.

Baba, if you see any good in me, just know that I am damaged.
Just know that I don’t believe in me the way you do.
Just know that I always want to be with you.
No matter how disappointing I am.

But Baba, I never wanted to be successful. I just want to know who Grandma was.

Exposé

Omar Sheriff plunges Western minority immigrants into the emotions they spent their whole lives avoiding. To achieve this, the Egyptian/Indian duo introduces a refreshing symbiosis of East and West.

Identity mixes with vagrancy, shame with freedom, despondency with life, pride with vulnerability, and baraf with Fairouz. The experiences of "brown feet" in lands of ice and snow are woven with innovative combinations of Gujarati, Arabic, English, French, Swahili, and Norwegian.

In addition to their showmanship of diversity through the use of language and cultural experiences, their band members are all noticeably global. Each masterfully wields their country's traditional instrument to fit seamlessly into the macrocosmic stimuli of Omar Sheriff.

The result is a true display of multicultural and generational integration that aids in the finalized visual experience.

Without a doubt, their diverse cast and application of various languages manifest a diverse fan base. However, young adults with complex ethnic identities are not the only ones who feel a deep connection to their music. It’s the Karls, Abigails, and 50+-year-old aunties who are showing up to concerts as well.

Karpe's Omar Sheriff reaches the ineffable. They are the next level of performance. I, personally, do not consider anything from their most recent EP to be music.

Rather, it is an experience.

An experience of the neglected past.
And ultimately, an experience that shines the spotlight on the vulnerable, confused, self that exists deep within us all.

It is the experience, of you.

I can practically hear a voice from deep within my forgotten darkness shout:
"This is me! this is who I am! This is who I always was.." And from watching the stunning performance of their music videos, it is undeniable that their fans also hear the same voice.

Omar Sherrif reminds us of our roots through our families, childhoods, and forsaken pains. They remind us of the necessity to express all of who we have become, from all of that which we experienced.

They perform the presence of the past.
They give it a voice. A language?

No.

They give it a stage.

And as for the painful experiences you, yourself can not confront.
They declare it.

In turn declaring you, and all that you are.

Through beautifully vivid emotional performances, they establish a trans-local, transgenerational, and transformatively inclusive dimension of belonging in Norway and SubAsia.

A dimension that has everyone weeping uncontrollably — local minorities and whites, young and old, men and women.

A dimension that has authors who once wrote books in critique of their music, now embracing their movement.

A dimension that has an English-speaking crowd wishing they knew Norwegian.

So that, perhaps, we could connect with them the same way their fans do at home.

So that, perhaps, we could loosen our grip on expecting the world to bend to our liking.

So that, perhaps, we could reach for the colorful splendor of their world.