In a dim, retro-hued Cairo studio, Donia Wael occupies the center of a lovingly chaotic tableau: a Persian rug underfoot, vintage Egyptian film posters peeling on the walls, and a microphone glinting softly under the spotlight.
She sits cross-legged, eyes closed, strumming an acoustic guitar with gentle urgency – her curly hair catching the warm light, loose and defiant.
She’s closing out her latest EP Bifkrny Beek (Arabic for “Think of Me”), released in May, with the song “Ezay,” a candid finale to a four-track journey of healing and self-discovery.
This release follows Wael’s recent turns in acting, starring in two web series El Harsha El Sabaa and Rivo, and earlier viral singles like “Bekya” and “El 3asal”.
But she seems more focused on pure music now than ever.
It’s a quiet statement of intent. Her latest single “Ezay” is not about a spectacle, but an intimate passing of the mic to the listener.
Ezay in Egyptian Arabic simply means “how”—an everyday question that in Wael’s voice becomes something larger.
Wael first wrote “Ezay” alone in her bedroom, humming the chorus on loop for hours before a single word emerged.
“I couldn’t name what I was feeling yet,” she says, “but it kept coming back to that one word—ezay. How?”
The song eventually bloomed into a group performance, despite its origins being intensely private.
“We all had this unspoken understanding,” Wael recalls. “We looked at each other like, ‘Yes, this is our song now.’”
She gushes about her band of rising indie talents—Maram Elsabbagh on keyboard, Randa Shoukry on guitar, Dalia Abdelaziz on percussion, and Sama Sherif on cello.
“I’ve never played with an all-female group before,” she says, eyes bright. “It felt like we were all part of one heartbeat.”
In a society where even the idea of a woman’s solo voice can draw moralistic scorn, Wael’s all-female band quietly asserts that singing is for everyone. For the indie singer-songwriter, this session was about emotional give-and-take, a feminist solidarity as much as an artistic choice.
She shrugs that here “the only political message is simply that every voice deserves to be heard together.”
As the conversation continues, Wael’s voice turns inward, becoming soft but animated as she describes how songs come to life.
“Writing comes naturally to me,” she explains. “I never sit down and force myself to think about a specific topic. The things that resonate most are the ones that come up without overthinking.”
For Wael, the melody almost comes before the words. She will hum a riff on repeat until a lyric forces its way out. It’s an organic creativity, almost conversational.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m thinking out loud in a song,” she says, then smiles.
Wael’s lyricism is shaped by instinct rather than intention, one of her most defining traits.
“My brain isn’t the driver,” she says. “It’s something softer than that. My feelings write the song, and I just let them.”
Her freewheeling openness is intentional. She imagines each song as an honest confessional, not a crafted mask. To Wael, songwriting is nothing short of a necessity.
“I have to get these feelings out or I’ll go crazy,” she confides with a shrug, as if explaining why she can’t stay silent.
Putting vulnerability into melody is, to her, a lifeline. Though Wael admits that, early on in her career, she was afraid that pushing boundaries would alienate fans.
Wael starts to smile as she recalls a recent message she received from a fan; a young man told her one of her songs got him through a breakup.
“He said, ‘You’re not alone, and neither are we,’” she relays, and tears well up in her eyes. “I started crying on the spot.”
That moment crystallized something for her: if her song made him feel less alone, the feeling clearly goes both ways.
Onstage, at this point in her career feeling more confident in sharing her emotions transparently, she often urges fans to feel their sadness rather than hide it.
“In every show, I tell people, ‘Embrace your sadness,’” she says.
To her, each new song is another chapter.
“I want my sound to encompass everything,” she says, eyes lighting up. “I want the audience to feel the transitions happening in my life.”
Across the Middle East and North Africa, many indie musicians share a creed of authenticity through simplicity, that “less is more” ethic lets every sigh, crack, and breath matter. For years, Arab indie bands have embraced similar minimalism, favoring intimate homemade textures over glossy pop productions.
Wael fits into that trend – sparse arrangements, a lot of space around the vocals, so every crackle in her voice counts.
But she’s also unafraid to experiment. On Bifkrny Beek, one track had subtle electronic beats, another softly swelling strings, all chosen to serve the mood.
Even so, every song feels very much hers – no heavy-handed studio effects, no one else’s ego on display.
Her voice—soft, weathered, occasionally cracking—remains the anchor.
“I don’t like polishing everything to perfection,” she says. “There’s power in a voice that trembles a little. It reminds people that I’m human.”
Peers have noticed her fearless vision. A 2021 feature by Lebanese producer Ziad Hamdan, of the indie duo SoapKills, highlighted Donia as “a cool singer and multi-instrumentalist… really building a nice buzz” in Egypt.
In Cairo’s small but vibrant indie scene, Wael’s name now often comes up alongside rising talents.
All of this is quietly radical in context. Female musicians worldwide have to work twice as hard to get the same recognition. Many women still “auto-censor” themselves from speaking out for fear of backlash.
In the Middle East, performers say there’s extra scrutiny. Religious hardliners or tabloid culture will lecture a female singer on modesty or insinuate impropriety just for stepping into the spotlight.
In Egypt especially, unspoken rules about how a young woman should behave still linger. Many of those stereotypes simply don’t fit Wael’s molds.
“I’m not your typical pop star,” she notes.
No auto-tuned perfection here, no choreographed dance – just a “soft girl” from Cairo making very raw art.
Her casual attire and minimal makeup are a sly rebuttal to the idea that a woman onstage must dress or act provocatively.
In fact, her very existence on stage is a statement. Egyptian underground bands like Rania al-Adawi’s Taboo once had to recruit male members simply so their parents would allow them to perform.
Wael’s success – complete with a full female band – feels like a quiet rebuke to those old prejudices. She often smiles that watching women share the mic is its own form of activism.
“When girls see other girls singing, they stop thinking it’s a man’s game,” she says softly.
Wael has become adept at shrugging off double standards. Every time she does something unexpected – singing a sad love song, speaking bluntly on TV – she chalks it up as a win.
The cover art for Bifkrny Beek, which features a soft-focus photo of Wael smiling in a stray sunbeam, also underscores her independence: no glam photo-shoot, just simple honest light.
The EP’s rollout was careful and deliberate too. Rather than releasing all four tracks online, she let each song breath and settle among fans first.
“I didn’t want to flood people,” she explains. “It’s like conversing – I drop a song, wait, see if it resonates, then continue.”
It’s a measured pace, almost conversational, reflecting her refusal to rush or to pander.
Wael’s story is still being written. One imagines her future chapters will involve more risks – perhaps a collaboration beyond Cairo.
But the through-line for a quest for truth in melody remains.
In any case, Wael seems ready for those next steps.
“If being honest makes people uncomfortable, I can live with that,” she shares. “I’d rather be a little bit messy and real than perfect and fake.”
For Wael, music is also a quiet act of solidarity. She imagines her songs floating across cities and borders.
“Maybe someone in another place will hear “Ezay” and feel a little less alone,” she offers.
Each new release is a message sent out to whoever needs it. As she often says, even the smallest act of creativity can spark connection.
Trump’s Gaza Plan Mustn’t Follow His Record on Women’s Rights
Trump’s 20-points Gaza peace plan shouldn’t repeat his domestic failures on women’s health, education, and rights.