COLLIS BROWNE: I remember first becoming aware of you last year with your Tiny Desk performance because the image of you with the keffiyeh was so clear and strong. It was at a moment when those of us connected to the Palestinian struggle for so many years started to see solidarity in places we hadn’t before, and in new ways. What’s your connection to Palestine and the Palestinian community?
ANA TIJOUX: I was born in France, and in my house, since I was born, there were always Palestinian friends of my parents. As far back as I can remember, we had the Palestinian flag at home when I was one, two, three, four years old. I remember having a picture of Arafat in my backpack since I was six years old. It was the representation of something important in my house as a Chilean. And it doesn’t matter if you’re Chilean—you don’t need to be Palestinian to have empathy. I think it’s very important to say: I’ve learned from Palestinian friends that some people have Palestinian blood, and other people have Palestinian hearts.
I think this is because Palestine represents all struggles—it’s the union of everything: colonization, gentrification, patriarchy, capitalism—everything in one place. And I had the chance to meet Palestinian people of my generation, to talk a lot, to understand more. The question is, perhaps, who cannot feel empathy for what is going on in Palestine today? As a human being, period. It’s just as a human being in service. And I was born into a family that, through the dictatorship, always told me, nunca más (never again)—never again torture, nunca más muerte (never again death), never again violence, any violence. And that’s the language we always use every day, like, let’s stand up against violence, systemic violence.
COLLIS BROWNE: Let’s focus on a couple of simple questions explicitly about this link between music and politics. My simplest definition of politics is “awareness of power in the world.” So the question for you as an artist, as a person, from the perspective of music: tell us about something that radicalized you, something that allowed you to get to the root of the issue, or some type of musical awakening.
ANA TIJOUX: First of all, I think that behind the music, everything is political. Everything in life, every relationship, is political. Every relationship with your friends or with someone you love is political. Why am I saying that? Because the word “political” has become something that everybody is afraid to say: Oh no, no, no, no, I’m apolitical, I don’t speak about political things. Because apparently, saying the word “political” automatically puts you in conflict with another person, which is crazy.
You were asking me about artists or people that changed my life. I’ve got such a long list of people who have changed my life and continue to change it. All the music that really touched my soul, my brain, and my body at the same time—because that’s something that gives me an orgasm in terms of pleasure of thought—is very political, because that person changed something in me. That person—through music, poetry, a documentary, or photography—had the ability to open something in me.
For me, it’s very political to speak out against violence—any violence. If we lose that, we lose empathy, and we lose humanity. If music and art are not about humanity and empathy, then I don’t know what they are. To me, they’d just be advertising.
COLLIS BROWNE: A million percent. There’s this quote I read recently: if art isn’t challenging, if it’s not deeply disrupting power or structural relations, then it’s just advertising.
Unrelatedly, tell me how you see the difference in mindset, culture, everything, between Chile and France. How do you navigate this bridge that is your world?
ANA TIJOUX: I never thought of myself as totally French or totally Chilean because I’m not a fan of la patria (patriotism) in general. I was not raised with that concept because I’ve been raised as an internationalist person. Even though my origins are in Chile, and I feel a deep connection to the culture, humor, and history, at the same time, I feel naturally distant. I have friends who were born and raised in Mapuche land [Indigenous Chilean land], and they have a real connection to the earth. But I always grew up in cities, so I never had that kind of relationship with the land. My Mapuche friends always say that I never really had land. I’ve always lived in apartments. I never had my feet on the ground.
For many years, I thought that was a problem—not having that connection. But now, I feel the opposite. I find it interesting because I always feel like a stranger everywhere. And now that I’m older, I like it. I always try to connect with people—maybe we come from very different cultures or histories, but we always find some kind of community sense. So, in some way, that’s how I define myself.
COLLIS BROWNE: Yeah, I like that a lot. It gives me a new perspective on myself. I grew up in Canada, in a very settler culture, descended from Scottish-Irish-British settlers. And I realized at some point that what’s really missing at the core of this settler culture is exactly that link to land, to ancestral history, to soul and meaning. I took it as an emptiness. But it’s interesting to hear you speak about disconnection from the land (for entirely different reasons) as a kind of freedom—a way to prioritize human connection. That’s interesting.
ANA TIJOUX: I like it because it’s like a camera—a photography camera. You go somewhere, and you’re always looking at the land, through the lens, looking inside but also looking far away at the same time. In some way, that gives me perspective. Of course, when you’re a teenager, when you’re building your personality, that can feel like an issue. Where do I come from? What are my roots? But I think that lack of definition is actually part of the migrant world we live in today. I had lunch recently with friends—some from Morocco, born in France, others from Martinique and Cameroon, also born in France. None of us were born in our countries of origin, yet when we were talking together, it felt like we had our own country, right there in that conversation. That’s the way I perceive myself.
COLLIS BROWNE: Do you feel pushback from the industry? Do people ever say, for example, Can you be less political? Can you not talk about this or that issue?
ANA TIJOUX: “Don’t be too loud.” Of course! Of course, that has happened since I was very young. Like one of the first songs that I did, I was, I don’t know, 19 years old, and I put the name of a [Chilean] torturer, who tortured a lot of people, and I wanted to hear it on the radio. I wanted that. I wanted his name on the radio. And I remember the radio at the time, they censored the song, but everybody was listening to the song. In the music industry, they always want to make you afraid. Don’t say that. Don’t push too strong. Please shut up. Of course, because I’ve got to live, I’ve got to be strategic sometimes, obviously. But I will never forget who I am and the story of my family. Like, oh, my family had been in jail. Like, that’s prisoners. Like, that’s the story of my family and I’m super proud of them, I tell it openly that I’m proud of my family, like, I’m proud of the way that they raised me.
That’s part of my history. My parents have been in jail, the two of them, and so that’s part of my history, of where I grew up, and they lived the torture. That’s the story of Chile. Not them particularly, I don’t mean personally, it’s the history of dictatorship. And I remember when I saw after the pandemic, I saw some terrible news about how fascism was growing. And I called my father. Now imagine those of that generation that lived through what I never lived— I’m a privileged person. So I called my father super worried, like “Papa, we are facing a global crisis. What are we gonna do?” My father laughed in my face. I say, Ana María, we were born in crisis, and we have known that since we were born. The issue is how we organize with each other. So I say, okay, Ana Maria, I feel so stupid. Yes, of course. So I see all that older generation is so full of struggle and dignity and ability.
I’m proud of the critical thinking my family instilled in me, and I think, at the same time with everything that happened since the seventh of October, I have said to a lot of friends, like, don’t be afraid to talk. And if they try to shut you up, to ban you, it’s a good sign. It’s because you’re saying something. And don’t be concerned.
So everybody’s afraid, I don’t know of what, because we can never be afraid to speak up against a genocide. Never. Because, if not, we’re going to repeat it, and it will be normalized, the normalization of violence, and against violence, we got to talk about life is our biggest revenge. Life is the biggest revenge against death.
