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| Foto: Privat |
Sami Hamami har levt ett liv kantat av händelser som på olika sätt format honom och hans uttryck. Han dansar och sjunger. Musiken och dansen blev ett sätt att överleva. Han flydde från Tunisien och hamnade i fängelse i Tyskland efter en administrativ miss. Så småningom kom han till Sverige och Boden, där han landade 2025.
Det har funnits många mörka stunder i Samis liv, men musiken har alltid varit det där stearinljuset som fått honom att orka och hjälpt honom att se bortom mörkret. Precis som dansen. I dag pratar jag med Sami om de mörka perioderna och om det som höll honom flytande.
Who were you before music became a way to survive, and who are you today?
- Before music became a lifeline, I was someone lost in a storm of agonizing questions.
- Today, I am someone who has walked through that fire and come out on the other side. I am a survivor, a dancer, an artist, and a guide for others who find themselves wandering through their own shadows.
When you were alone in that cell, what was going through your mind when you started writing music?
-Why me? Why did everything fall apart like this? Why was I doomed to suffer while the world kept turning outside? I was trapped not just in physical confines, but in a profound mental darkness - a place so deep and suffocating that there were moments I wanted to welcome death just to make the endless torment stop.
Was there a specific moment when you realized that music was keeping you alive?
- There wasn't a sudden, cinematic realization. It happened in the quietest, darkest seconds - when the rhythm in my head and the sound of my own voice became louder than the despair wanting me to give up. I realized that as long as I could sing and move, even in a cell, death would not win. My spirit could transcend those locked doors, and in that act of creation, I chose to stay alive.
Did you ever lose your connection to music, even for a moment, during your darkest times?
- Yes, there were moments when the darkness felt too heavy, and the connection to music flickered and dimmed. In the deepest valleys of despair, when the "why" questions beat relentless against my chest, inspiration felt impossible. But even when the words wouldn't come, a faint rhythm remained beneath the surface - a stubborn heartbeat refusing to surrender to the void.
When you look back at the person you were in that isolation cell, what do you feel towards him today?
- They called it a "closed camp," but let's speak the plain truth: it was a jail.
Inside that small isolation cell, stripped of everything, the noise outside was overwhelming - shouting, banging doors, metallic echoes, and the heavy weight of collective despair.
But in the middle of all that noise, I was in a place so dark that my mind constantly replayed the bitter "why" questions. Why did it all happen like this? In the quietest hours, the thought of ending it all felt like the only way to escape the pain.
Yet, against all logic, between all the noise, I was the only one in my cell singing.
My voice was frail at first, but it became a defiance against the dark.
- Even inside that closed camp, I began to dance. I danced in that confined space because moving my body was the only way to prove I was still alive, that my spirit hadn't been buried under those concrete walls.
- When I look back at the person I was in that cell, I don’t feel judgment. I feel a deep, overwhelming compassion.
I see a young man trapped in a dark room, staring into the abyss of death and begging for answers to questions that had no answers. I look at him with tears in my eyes and thank him for choosing to sing instead of giving up, because his refusal to break is the reason I am standing here today.
Have you ever written a song about something you still find difficult to talk about?
- Every artist carries truths that are too sharp to speak in everyday conversation. I have written songs about the raw, unfiltered agony of wanting to disappear, the terrifying silence of an isolation cell in a closed camp, and the scars left behind by places designed to crush a human soul. Music allows me to speak to the pain without letting it break me again.
Do you think the pain you have experienced has changed your sound, your lyrics, or the way you perform?
- Pain changes everything. It deepens the sound, strips away the superficiality, and infuses every lyrics and every movement with a truth that cannot be faked. When I perform or write today, that darkness isn't just a memory; it is energy transformed. It makes the rhythm heavier, the movement more urgent, and the connection with anyone listening infinitely more real.
When you make music today, are you trying to understand your past, escape it, or turn it into something meaningful?
- Today, making music and dancing is a way to transform the past. It is no longer just about escaping the memory of that jail or surviving the dark thoughts; it is about alchemy - turning poison into medicine, and isolation into a bridge that connects me to other human beings.
Is there a part of yourself that you can only express through music or dance?
- There is a visceral, unspoken language in dance and music that words simply cannot capture. The trauma of being locked away, the agonizing "why" questions, and the physical memory of dancing in a small cell all live in the body. Through movement, I reclaim absolute ownership of myself. I dance today because I danced when I was locked up, and now that rhythm belongs entirely to me.
What has music allowed you to say that you have never been able to say to another person?
- Music has allowed me to confess my absolute lowest moments - the times I wanted death, the anger at why my life turned out this way, and the utter desperation of my survival. It has allowed me to say, "I was at the very bottom, but I sang my way back up," in a way that I could never fully express in normal conversation.
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| Foto: Privat |
You now use art to help others find their strength. Who helps you when you struggle?
- Even when you spend your life helping others, carrying those dark memories can make the weight feel heavy again. When I struggle, I lean into the stillness of northern Sweden, the grounding presence of nature, and the quiet moments where I can breathe without having to prove anything. I remind myself of what I tell others: that it is okay to rest, and that the dark times of the past no longer control the present.
When you meet a young person who has lost faith in themselves, do you recognize something of your younger self in them?
- When I meet a young person who has lost faith in themselves, I see a mirror of my younger self sitting in that cell. I recognize that specific look in their eyes - the exhaustion of asking "why me?" and the temptation to give up. That recognition is precisely why I show up for them; I want to be the light and the voice I desperately needed when I was alone in the dark.
Has helping others also helped you heal, or can carrying other people's pain become difficult?
- Carrying other people's pain can be exhausting, especially when it touches the raw memories of your own past in closed camps and isolation. But seeing someone else find their rhythm, pick up their voice, and choose life over darkness - that healing is sacred. It rewrites the pain of the past into purpose.
What does feeling at home mean to you today, after everything you have experienced and your move to northern Sweden?
- After everything I have survived and my move to northern Sweden, home is no longer just a geographical place. It is a state of inner peace. It is found in the quiet expanses of the north, the crisp air, the stillness of the forests, and the deep-seated knowledge that the cell door is open forever, and I am finally safe in my own skin.
If someone listened to your music without knowing your story, what would you want them to understand about you?
- If someone listened to my music without knowing a single detail of my story, I would want them to feel an unshakeable belief in survival. I would want them to hear that even when you are locked in a closed camp, even when your mind is in the darkest place imaginable, you can still be the one who sings - and that voice can carry you all the way home.
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