Rima Iraki's Opening Speech

In many ways, Oslo World represents how I see myself: a citizen of the world— my blood is Palestinian, I was born in Germany, raised in Norway, educated in Australia—and coming here really feels like coming home. This festival is not just a meeting place for people who love music; it’s also a reflection of our world. It combines the best from the West and the East, the South and the North, and makes everyone feel welcome.

Though, many of us know that home is not always easy to find—especially when you grow up between cultures, borders, and languages. When I grew up as an immigrant child here in Norway, I often felt lost. I asked myself questions like: Who am I? Where do I belong?

I am Palestinian, but I had never set foot in Palestine—a land I had only heard stories about, where my grandparents lived in harmony with their Jewish neighbours before they were forced to flee.Was Lebanon home? The country where my parents grew up as refugees in the overcrowded camps and slums of Beirut. A place they had fallen in love with and found love in—yet also a land where they always felt like outsiders.Was it Germany, where I was born? Was that home? But I never felt German, because your place of birth doesn’t necessarily define who you are or where you come from. Then what about Norway? The country my parents sought refuge in, escaping wars and trauma. Was that home?

Growing up here, I always felt out of place. I looked different - I had a different story. In the schoolyard, in the neighborhood, and in the media, I searched for someone who could mirror me. Someone who looked like me, spoke Arabic at home, and knew what mlokheye, kibbeh, and hummus was. But I didn't find anyone. No faces reflected my family’s story. I missed home, without ever knowing what home actually was. I spent years searching.

It wasn’t until I discovered Arabic music that things began to change. Of course, my parents had always played the beautiful voices of Fairuz, Abdel Halim Hafez, and Um Khultoom at home, but to me, that was music for older generations. And as a kid, you don’t want to be like your parents. But when the internet arrived and we installed a satellite dish on our balcony, suddenly media from the Arab world became accessible, and a whole new universe was revealed to me. I found music videos with the glamorous Nawal El Zoghbi, singing to oriental sounds mixed with Western beats, and I was captivated. With Nawal El Zoghbi, Wael Kfoury, Ragheb Alama, Najwa Karam, Cheb Khaled, Nancy Ajram, and of course: Hakim. His joyful, energetic songs made it impossible to sit still—those party rhythms became the soundtrack to my life at that time.

But most importantly, the thought that other teens who looked like me were listening to the exact same songs, on the other side of the world, made me feel connected to my roots. Music was the bridge that made it possible to be somewhere, even if you weren’t physically there. That’s when I started to feel more whole. More at home.

Today, I am an adult, and I have found the answers to the questions I used to ask myself as a child. I am Palestinian and I am Norwegian. Home is here and there. Now, the artists my parents used to listen to—Fairuz and Abdel Halim—evoke special emotions in me. It connects me to something.

And that is the beauty of music. It tells stories and unites us. But it can also give us moments of rest. Sometimes we might feel guilty for taking those moments, knowing that others are suffering. But those of us privileged enough to do so must recognize these moments as gifts. Even people living through war find moments to dance, to sing, to forget for a second all that is happening. There are always glimmers of hope, and we should not be afraid to embrace them.

Tonight, I welcome you all to celebrate these glimmers of hope that unite us. Let us use this pause of joy to gather strength and appreciate life. 

I hereby declare Oslo World 2025 open. Let the music begin!