Melbourne Town Hall glows pink and purple, as I climb the stairs to the Main Hall. It’s a Tuesday night, 2 June 2026, and the crowd fills the entire space. I enter to the enchanting melodies of the night’s opener, Tarab Ensemble: Australia’s leading classical Arabic music group, founded by Palestinian-Australian musician, Yousef Alreemawi. The crowd dances to their rhythms, humming with excitement. The audience is separated into two: a sprawling standing area by the stage and an upper gallery overlooking us from above. The ceiling is so high that it almost feels like we’re outside, among the stars. 

We’re gathered to see 25-year-old Marwan Abdelhamid, better known by his stage name: Saint Levant. Born to a Palestinian-Serbian father and a French-Algerian mother, his moniker alludes to both his French and Middle Eastern roots. It is a play on the French luxury fashion house, “Yves Saint Laurent”, and the Levant, which geographically refers to the Eastern Mediterranean coast. His music is a métissage: blending Pop, R&B, Rap, and Funk with traditional Palestinian and Algerian rhythms creating a distinctly East-meets-West sound. The lyrics combine Arabic, English and French, highlighting the diversity of his cultural background. Levant has been releasing music since 2020, when he first opened a TikTok account to spotlight the cultural and political history of Palestine. 

This is the opening night of his much anticipated first tour in Australia, having gained international acclaim for making music that advocates for the people of Palestine. Although Saint Levant’s early music, such as "Jerusalem Freestyle”, explored themes of Palestinian displacement and suffering, he first received mainstream attention for songs which focussed on more typical subjects of rap and R&B music—love, lust, and personal triumphs. With a growing reputation as a global representative of Palestinian liberation, Levant has been subject to criticism for his supposed mainstreaming of politics through his pop-infused music. In a recent Guardian article, Nesrine Malik encapsulates the criticism that he “hasinstrumentalised politics to help his career and broken the rules of vigil by embracing revelry”. Yet if this concert shows anything, it’s how the performance of popular music is not simply an act of frivolity but can be a uniting and empowering force during times of political unrest. 

The crowd’s excitement rises as we anticipate the beginning of his set. The cheers of Zaghareet, an Arabic celebratory ululation, fill the air as his band walks on-stage. A few people are wrapped in Keffiyehs; others hold the flags of various Arabic nations, representing their homelands with pride. Levant strides onto stage in a timeless white suit, dressed like a true star. He opens with “On this Land”, a 2024 single responding to the crisis in Gaza, addressing themes of Indigeneity, war, displacement, and resilience. The serious tone draws

the audience into the politically uncompromising space Levant’s music inhabits and fittingly sets the tone for a performance in Australia. The song invokes our country’s own relationship to immigration and colonial displacement, a reminder that one’s connection to their homeland can never be severed. 

Cheers fill the air, as Levant cruises through his joyous 2025 hits. We sing along to the pulsing “Do You Love Me?”, a rapturous ode to his lover’s beauty, and “Kalamantina”, a yearning, pleading love song which builds up to a fast-paced dance groove. I notice a group of men jumping with excitement as the feisty “Nari Nari Nari” starts playing, one of them exclaiming: “This is my song!”. Levant’s stage presence is nothing short of powerful, capable of eliciting screams from the audience as he twirls his wrists or attempts the slightest shimmy, singing and rapping with ease. Comfortable on-stage, he moves with self assurance and smiles like he’s performing to a group of old friends. He amusingly introduces his 2022 breakout single, “Very Few Friends”, as if we wouldn’t know it, before the room bursts with excitement. As he comes to my side of the stage and gives us a small wave, a woman in front of me collapses theatrically, starstruck! Every so often, Levant reaches for his saxophone and plays effortlessly, a firm reminder of his diverse musical prowess. 

Levant takes a moment to pause his set to advocate for the current geo-political situation in Gaza and across the Middle East. He alludes to the censorship of his political activism and laments his inability to speak what is “in [his] heart”. Switching to Arabic mid-way, his words elicit laughter and careful attention from the Arabic speakers around me. He translates the speech into English after; I suspect he’s left a few words out. This moment feels like a reclamation of power and language. He stresses the preciousness of free speech and names the countries currently experiencing severe humanitarian crises across the Middle East and Africa: Palestine, Lebanon, Syria, Sudan and Congo. He finishes by vowing to “sing” if he cannot speak out. This encourages a Free Palestine chant from the empowered crowd. Saint Levant points out a Lebanese flag in the audience, before covering “Law Hobna Ghalta”, a song by Lebanese artist, Wael Kfoury. The message is clear: Abdelhamid may be Palestinian, but he sings for the Levant. 

At about forty-five minutes in, the band unexpectedly exits the stage. Is this the end? A DJ deck is rolled onto stage and realisation dawns. Levant returns to the stage and is joined by an unrecognisable older man who gets on the decks. They play a remix of Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie”, infused with a traditional Arabic instrumental, transforming the refined space of Town Hall into a night club. The room is aglow with flashing lights and the crowd dances with abandon. I’m not sure if I’ve ever had this much fun at a concert before; the crowd’s joy is completely infectious. As they wrap their set, Levant reveals that the DJ is Rashid Abdelhamid, his father. The 2024 single, “Diera”, was inspired by his father’s now destroyed hotel in Gaza. An ode to Palestine and the homes that Levant and so many other

Palestinians have lost, the song was one of the highlights of the night. Thanking the audience, Levant reintroduces himself with his real name, Marwan, before leaving the stage. 

The crowd lingers awkwardly, refusing to accept that this is the end. A few people start slowly trickling out before Levant and the band return for an encore. They perform a string of his biggest hits, including a reprised “Nari Nari Nari” and his new single, “Sabah El Ward”. I’d hoped he’d perform his 2023 single, “Nails”, a rap song about personal success and vindication. I now realise that it would’ve felt wrong to perform a song about individual triumphs at a concert honouring collective celebration and catharsis. The sense of community established in the room is not only a testament to the power of music but also solidarity in such wrought times. It’s as if we haven't come together for Saint Levant; Saint Levant has come to bring us all together. 

As the show ends, the crowd stays back, begging for more. Some even plead with Levant’s father as he returns to retrieve his equipment. He laughs and shakes his head, amused by the hunger of his son’s avid audience. As I walk out, I hear laughter and chatter from the dispersing crowd. At the crossing, a car stops at the orange light and rolls down the window to call out to us. I don’t quite catch what’s being said until the pedestrian signal turns green and the crowd surges forward, responding in unison: “Palestine will be free.”