The R&B singer Idman is choosing to do the scary things

Growing up in Toronto, a child of Somali immigrants, Idman was entranced by the story of Arawelo: a 1st century BC Somali queen known for her eccentricities and defiance of gender roles. Beginning her rule in 15 AD, the proto-feminist warrior was a fearsome advocate for matriarchy and women's empowerment, and sometimes, the castration of men. 

When their family immigrated from Somalia to Kenya before North America, Idman brought along their love for arts and music — with Arawelo's spirit serving as inspiration. The child of a wedding planner, Idman would work as a flower girl, staying up late into the hours of celebration, priding themselves on always being the last kid awake. 

Now, Idman is taking strides as an artist, political organizer, and entrepreneur. The R&B singer is part of Golly Geng, a Black queer and trans-led music collective supporting emerging artists. They are also a conscientious organizer and an advocate for gender and sexuality expression. Recently, Idman penned an essay for GLAAD looking at the xenophobia and Islamophobia of "out culture." 

In 2020, Idman released the song "Down For It," which accumulated 2.5 million plays on Spotify. In the summer of 2023, they released "Risk: Reloaded," an EP examining grief, heartbreak, and nostalgia. It begins with the thoughtful interlude where we learn the pronunciation of Idman's name — an array of voices saying it with intention. The introduction fades into their hit, "Hate," which accumulated shy of one million views in its first months of release, going viral on TikTok.

For CBC Arts, Idman spoke about what it means to take risks as a Black Muslim trans artist who finds themself between Kenya, North America, and their Somali roots.

Huda Hassan: What made you become an artist? 

Idman: I was super anti-doing music. I think it's something I've, at different points in my life, had to contend with in different ways. When I was growing up, my mom was a wedding planner. For a lot of the weddings that happened in Toronto, Somali artists would stay at my house for long periods. I grew up around all of them, and — as someone with a lot of Capricorn placements — took my job as a flower girl seriously. I prided myself on being the last kid awake, being super observant and trying to use those qualities in my art. As I grew older, I grew a huge interest in social justice and politics, too. 

[But] music was something I was thinking about in the back of my mind. I remember meeting Salaam Remi at 21 and talking about doing a possible deal at SONY. [At first, I was apprehensive] because I think that direct action is what I'm supposed to be doing. Salaam Remi said, your concept of good movement ecology needs to grow and you need to understand that art is a huge part of it. 

A lot of my elders that I was working with in the community in Portland [Maine] would drive that point home to me — everybody matters. The food access work folks matter; spiritualists matter, and art is the pocket of joy that sustains [us] in the pockets that exist within what has kept our people here." 

HH: You recently wrote in your essay for GLAAD: "They were some of the only adults I truly felt safe around as a kid. It went against everything I'd heard in the West about back home with issues around queerness and gender." Tell me about the pathways that led to you penning this piece. 

Idman: As someone who is an elder sibling and socialized as a woman, I feel like I've been contending with surveillance my whole life. I wanted to make sure in [writing this essay] people weren't mistaken about the fact that I do feel like our culture is xenophobic, anti-Black, and Islamophobic. When you tell folks who are at the bottom of the totem pole that their integrity and views around morality are in question based on how willing they are to put themselves in danger is just a whack place to start. It's not easy for folks like me to do this thing. 

I'm not one of those people who's ever going to pretend I don't care about the sharing aspect of music. I care about people listening, and the dialectic relationship. For this to make sense for me, I have to feel I'm doing something impactful with the space that I'm entering — or, at least, trying to make things better for everybody coming up after me. When thinking about the "out" Somali folks in the musical zeitgeist, I felt like no one came up in that sense. I thought, maybe this is the service, responsibility, or duty to do this thing.  

HH: I want to talk about risks. What are the other risks you had to take in becoming an artist? 

Idman: Risk feels okay. Within an industry that posits your worth around how close you are, or your proximity to opulence is, or what your proximity to like being not okay — all of it feels like a risk. Putting my trust, as a Black trans-Muslim person, in folks whose job histories are all within a machine that historically has kept people like me out. All of it feels risky. If I'm here, it means it still feels worth it, but I want to be honest all the way through.

HH: I know it's a generic question, but what's next? And what is being fearless to you? 

Idman: I'm approaching 2024 with a completely different energy. Risk: Reloaded was my heartbreak project but I'm thinking about the cycle of what happens post-heartbreak. I want to be committed to being more fearless in 2024 and doing the scariest thing; the spookiest option. 

I'm seeing people who know me be bolder and do more things outside of my comfort zone: my punk self, where my knees and voice are visibly shaking. I am frail and afraid as a constant. But the purpose of me doing this is to shake so the other person has a little bit more sturdiness.