hanaa When listening became necessary
At some point, music stopped being something HANAA turned to out of curiosity or pleasure and became something far more essential. “I needed to breathe and exist,” she says, returning to the atmosphere of her child- hood and teenage years. “My home was a heavy, restrictive place, and the electronic music my sister and I listened to was a bubble. It was a space where we could feel free, even if only in the living room or in the car.” What formed there was not a hobby or an interest, but a private refuge. A way of enduring moments that offered no other form of relief. “It wasn’t just pleasure. It was a way to get through very difficult mo- ments.”
Those early emotional imprints have never dissolved. They sit quietly inside the music she makes now, shaping its tone and its density. “When I create today, those connections are still ali- ve,” she explains. “They’re in the textures, in the pads, in the pia- no, in the way my live shows hold both intensity and intimacy at the same time.” Music remains a place of safety, but the rela- tionship has shifted. “It’s still a safe space for me, but now I can guide others through that same journey. I can invite people to feel, to reconnect with their own emotions, while also protecting myself.” What once functioned as survival has become trans- mission. The urgency remains, but it has learned how to open outward.
The velocity in HANAA’s music is inseparable from its emotio- nal core. Working predominantly between 148 and 155 BPM, she doesn’t treat tempo as a tech- nical decision, but as something instinctive and bodily. “For me, the tempo, the drive, that who- le BPM range, it’s almost like a heartbeat,” she says. “It’s the physical vessel for
whatever
emotion I’m carrying at that mo- ment.” Speed, in her hands, is not about escalation. It’s about ho- nesty. “When I translate intense feelings into music, it’s not about forcing energy. It’s about letting the emotional truth dictate the rhythm.”
“I didn’t always have the ability to change my personal situation, so electronic music was my escape.”
That approach shapes how the music feels on a dance floor. Even at its fastest, it never clo- ses in. “I imagine the listener not just moving, but inhabiting the music,” she explains. “Feeling the tension and the release, the eu- phoria and the vulnerability at the same time.” She is acutely aware of how easily high BPM can lose its humanity. “Fast mu- sic can become aggressive or mechanical if it’s only technical,” she says. “That’s why I spend so much time shaping space, textu- re, and melody. I want the music to stay human, even in constant motion.” The goal is not spec- tacle, but recognition. “I want someone on the dance floor to connect with a feeling they can’t name. That’s when the energy becomes meaningful, not just kinetic.”
If the dance floor is where the music is shared, the studio is where it is confronted. HANAA describes her relationship with production as visceral, unfilte- red, and deeply emotional.
“I produce with my gut. Every track comes from somewhere deep inside me,” she says. “When I’m in the studio, I cry, I laugh, I feel everything at once. It’s not just about arranging sounds or finding the right tempo. It’s where I confront memories and emotions I can’t reach anywhere else.”
The intensity isn’t cultivated. It’s inevitable. The studio is where she feels most at home.
“At the beginning, I didn’t even realise there were multiple ways to make music, I was sear- ching, absorbing, trying to un- derstand the rules. I started to see the studio not as a tech- nical tool, but as a living space.
A mirror of my inner world. Every sound, every texture, is chosen as much with my heart as with my mind. That’s what makes the music feel human to me.”
That humanity, however, was tested.
“Isn’t it strange to develop wi- thin a scene that often no longer prioritises emotion, or even the music itself? Coming to terms with the idea that something so personal could be turned into a capitalist entity was a shock. For a while, it was actually harmful to me and my output. It felt like something pure had been dis- rupted. I had to strip things back, protect what mattered, and re- define success on my own terms. I had to stop comparing myself to others.”
That process led her here.
“This year, I finally feel ready to share my music honestly, wi- thout fear. I’m no longer creating to fit into a system or meet ex- pectations. I’m creating from a place of truth.” What once felt like loss now reads differently. “It gave me clarity, independen- ce, and the confidence to stand behind my sound fully, exactly as it is.”
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