Meryem Aboulouafa: Songs for the Spaces Between

From Casablanca to global playlists, the Moroccan singer-songwriter creates music that feels both deeply personal and universally resonant.

As her song Breath of Roma finds a remarkable second life through Bref.2, Meryem reflects on family, memory, language, silence, and the enduring strength of softness in a world that rarely stops shouting.

There is something rare about Meryem Aboulouafa’s music. It doesn’t demand attention; it earns it. Blending Arabic and English, intimacy and cinematic grandeur, the Casablanca-born artist has built a singular universe where emotions unfold gently, yet linger long after the final note. While many listeners recently discovered her through Bref.2 and the renewed success of Breath of Roma, her artistic journey has been years in the making. Following the release of Family, an album that explores the complexities of familial bonds with remarkable nuance, Aboulouafa opens up about identity, creativity, memory, and why whispering may be one of the most radical acts of all.

Osé Magazine : Many people recently discovered you through Bref.2 and “Breath of Roma,” even though the song is already several years old. What does it feel like to see a song have such a powerful second life?

Meryem Aboulouafa: It’s a strange and beautiful feeling at the same time. I’m truly honored that my music is associated with Bref.2 in particular; it’s a series I really enjoy. It confirms something I’ve always believed: a true song always finds its moment. Not necessarily the moment you release it, but its moment. And this one was worth the wait.

OM: You come from Casablanca, yet your music seems to belong to several emotional geographies at once. Have you always felt that you existed “between different worlds” musically?

MA: I think it’s simply a reflection of what I received growing up. As a Moroccan, I was immersed from childhood in both Eastern and Western influences, and that feels natural to me, almost geographical. Morocco sits at the crossroads of continents, a strategic point of convergence throughout history. Music is no exception. I’m happy to be nourished by these rich cultural resources, and I’ve never experienced it as a tension, but rather as a privilege.

“Morocco sits at the crossroads of continents, a strategic point of convergence throughout history. Music is no exception.”

OM: Before music, you studied fine arts and interior architecture. Do you still think of your songs as spaces or places to inhabit?

MA: That’s a beautiful way to put it. I hadn’t thought about it exactly like that, but it resonates. I think yes, in a way. Music is a space for emotions. I arrange themes, colors, and storytelling the way one arranges a room. And what I try to create above all is a space that is as inclusive and comfortable as possible. A place where people can settle in, recognize themselves, and feel at home.

OM: Your first album, Meryem, felt deeply intimate, almost nocturnal. Looking back, what does that album say about the person you were at the time?

MA: Meryem is indeed very personal, very introspective. It tells the story of who I was at that moment. Part of that person still exists within me, but she has evolved through reflection, exploration, and life experience. I think that’s also what a first album is for: establishing a starting point so you can better see the direction you want to take next.

OM: Your voice is often described as “soft,” yet your songs sometimes deal with very difficult subjects: fear, loneliness, exile, family tensions… Does that contrast interest you artistically?

MA: I’m sincerely touched that my voice is perceived as soft. Honestly, this contrast isn’t deliberate at all. In fact, I’ve never thought of my voice as particularly soft, and therefore I don’t build an aesthetic around paradox. I simply allow myself the freedom to talk about what moves me, what runs through my everyday life, and somehow that finds its way into the texture of the voice. It’s a bit like a conversation: the same words can carry very different emotions depending on the context and what you’re carrying within you that day.

OM: Family is an extremely universal title, but also a very emotionally charged one. At what point did you realize the album would revolve around that idea?

MA: It came quite naturally, almost without me realizing it. When I composed the song Family, I understood that unconsciously I kept returning to the same place over and over again: family ties, their complexity, and everything they carry in silence. That’s when I realized it wasn’t a coincidence. That was the heart of the second album.

OM: In several songs, family feels both like a refuge and a source of wounds. Were you trying to challenge an idealized vision of family?

MA: Not really challenge it, but rather look at it honestly. There’s something particular about the people we love deeply: their closeness makes us more vulnerable, more permeable. Frictions become amplified because they matter. We don’t react the same way to a stranger as we do to someone whose opinion truly affects us. I wanted to place that reality within a musical project, to explore these relationships without judgment, but above all with a great deal of kindness. To grow in love toward people I perhaps know a little too well, and not yet well enough.

OM: You sing in both Arabic and English, sometimes within the same project. Are there certain emotions that can only exist in a particular language?

MA: Instinctively, yes. Some things are expressed with a kind of modesty in one language that they wouldn’t have in another. Expressing love in Arabic, for example, is almost intimate by default; the language carries it differently. The choice of language is often unconscious for me, but I believe it’s always the right one. Each language has its own emotional temperature.

OM: “Letter to Andalous” evokes Andalusian memory and the figure of Tariq Ibn Ziyad. Why did you feel the need to engage with History in such a personal album?

MA: I literally knew Tariq Ibn Ziyad’s speech by heart from my drama classes at the conservatory in Casablanca. Over time, fascinating discussions emerged around him. Some even question whether he existed at all, pointing out that Tariq Ibn Ziyad was Amazigh and would naturally have spoken Amazigh rather than Arabic. But beyond the historical debate, what strikes me is the power of words. Even within the collective imagination, that speech has had an extraordinary resonance throughout the Arab world. Words carried by a figure of such stature can move mountains.

And that’s what echoes Family. Our parents are our first heroes. A word of encouragement, a word of validation from them can change an entire life. I was fortunate enough to receive those words from my father, Allah yrehmou, and I am deeply grateful for them. His voice resonates within me today with the same strength that Tariq’s speech once carried. A beautiful inheritance.

“I was fortunate enough to receive those words from my father, Allah yrehmou, and I am deeply grateful for them. His voice resonates within me today…”

OM: There is something very cinematic about your music. When you compose, do you visualize images, scenes, almost like internal films?

MA: Yes, absolutely. I visualize the story I’m telling at the very moment I’m composing it. It’s almost a necessary condition for me. The clearer the image is in my mind, the more naturally the writing and composition unfold. As if the song first exists as images, and the words and music simply come afterwards to name it.

OM: Many artists today speak openly and directly about mental health or vulnerability. In your work, everything seems more suggested, more understated. Is that an aesthetic choice or a form of modesty?

MA: That’s a beautiful observation. I think that in my music, I’m engaged in a process of exploration out loud, and sung. I like to invite reflection rather than impose a reading. To suggest, to leave space for each person to project what belongs to them. The line between aesthetic choice and natural modesty is blurry for me, and I think that’s exactly as it should be.

OM: The song “Paranoïa” feels more direct and darker than some of your previous work. Did this album allow you to move toward something more raw?

MA: It’s important to know that this album is produced by my own independent label, ZERHOUN, and that’s a milestone I’m particularly proud of. That complete freedom opened doors I might not otherwise have pushed open. With Paranoïa, I did want to move toward something more direct. I also wanted to explore unfamiliar territory and experiment with a different technical style for the duration of a single track.

OM: In your songs, silence often seems almost as important as the lyrics themselves. Is silence a musical material for you?

MA: Without hesitation, yes. Silence is often where everything happens. It’s what gives weight to words, what allows a sentence to breathe, what creates anticipation.

OM: You recently spoke about the administrative difficulties you experienced in France. Has that period changed your relationship with creativity or even with the idea of “home”?

MA: Although I consider myself a citizen of the world, curious about cultures and a traveler at heart, the question of home has always been clear to me somewhere deep down. Home is Morocco. Home is Casablanca. That administrative situation was a reminder, certainly a harsh one, but a reminder nonetheless. It didn’t change what I already knew.

OM: Your music often feels like it’s whispering rather than trying to impress. In a very noisy and highly performative era, can softness be a form of resistance?

AM: Gentle strength, that’s exactly it. I even wrote a song on my album Family called Résistance, precisely because I believe in that form of strength. The resistance of water carving its way through stone without asking permission, without agitation. It simply persists. And through persistence, it eventually creates a path.

“It’s a strength that I associate with femininity. Strength through the endurance of softness.”

It’s a strength that I associate with femininity. Strength through the endurance of softness. In a world that is so saturated, so performative, choosing to whisper may be the most radical act of all.