Interview with Saba Tadele by Naima Bashir

Can you share the moment or experience that set you on your path as an artist and a creator?

I've always been creative since childhood and I was brought up in a creative home. My father is an architect by profession, but he was also a painter so he used to invent things. I remember we had oil paints when I grew up in our home. I still remember the smells still and even though he had his nine to five, he always tried to make space for creative outlets. And he used to bring us to exhibitions and back in those days, early '90s in Skåne, Malmö. I remember kids like us were not in those spaces. And especially outside of Malmö in Skåne there was something called Konstrundan, where you travel to small cities around Skåne and visit exhibitions. I remember during that time there were a lot of stereotypes about people looking like us being in those spaces but he always made sure that we claimed our spots in those spaces. But also like looking back on his childhood he was brought up in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia and when he was eight years old he had to provide for his family and his father was in the military, so he used to travel around Ethiopia but also to other countries. And as the oldest son he had to provide and he used to make these traditional Biblical paintings of Queen of Sheba, Saba. And that's also how I got my name, but so he made these spiritual paintings on leather, where he painted the story of, for example, Saba and Solomon. It's like visual storytelling and he sold them on the streets of Addis Ababa. So I always remember these stories he told me and it's somehow ingrained in me and reminds me of how art was there even before my birth, somehow.

And then I grew up in Malmö, and I remember growing up I always used to play with colors, with clothes and textiles. I had an early interest in visual elements and when I was a teenager I think that's when I really started dabbling into different things and it actually started in music.

Back then there were youth projects in Rosengård and we were kind of mentors to these young kids back then. But we tried to teach them ways of expressing themselves by giving them tools for using hip hop at that time, and I used to sing and rap and DJing at that time too. But it was like teaching it somehow wasn't enough for me. I used to sing and dance. And when I was 18, I converted to Islam. I was raised in an Ethiopian Orthodox Christian home. So that was kind of a breaking point for me. I was very eager to learn more about Islam, but at the same time, I was also thinking "how am I going to bring my creative practice into this. And when you're 18 and just starting practicing, a lot is happening at that age. You don't know what academic path you're gonna pursue and a new religion came into my life and I was thinking "okay how I'm I going to navigate all of this?". I moved to Medina, lived there for eight years I was newly married. I had kids and two of my kids were born in Medina. And that was a spiritual journey for me. I was there both to learn more about my religion, but I was also far away from family and having gone through a lot I also started to question a lot of things in my life. And then in middle of all of that my daughter was born and during this time my uncle passed away in Ethiopia.

So in a way for me to heal from that, I started painting. It was almost like a prayer or a meditation. I found a lot of peace in it. But I didn't understand what I was doing at all, and abstract art was nothing my father had taught me or it wasn't like I knew abstract artists and then I did that. I just fell into it, it was more like an intuitive process and it helped me a lot to just find a connection with God too. Because for me, especially when it comes to my abstract paintings I never plan my work. I usually sit with a bunch of paints and I need to find a space within myself where I can be very present. If I'm not that, I don't paint.

It doesn't come from me, that's what I believe. I believe very strongly that it's a connection with the divine. It's just like when we do our salah (prayer) we need the Khushu (focus) we need the sincerity and the intention. And for me the paintings are exactly the same process.

And then I came back to Sweden. I started dabbling in other things like photography, and I started writing again. I've been writing since I was a teenager but I didn't write poetry in the way that I do now.

How has your artistic style evolved over the years? Were there any pivotal moments or influences that shaped this transformation?

I definitely think a lot of the life situations that I went through impacted all of my life choices but also the mediums that I chose. I feel like it wouldn't be easier to just do one thing. I think to myself, being multidisciplinary and a person of color and a Muslim woman, I feel like oftentimes people want to just grasp what kind of artist you are, because it's already too much for them to understand and then you do 15 other things. But I think for me even though my work is multidisciplinary and within different art forms, the common thing is that it's me. It's my soul and it's my experience and it's my heritage, and I think I see a red thread. For example with abstract arts, I don't think I would've been able to create anything else in that specific time in my life. And the music in my teenage years gave me a foundation because I'm still very inspired by music and culture from different countries, which inspires a lot of my work.

In what ways has your background and faith shaped your artistic practice?

I think as a new Muslim, it was hard for me to navigate certain things. I mean I didn't have the knowledge of how to implement religion into my life and I think I was kind of strict in the beginning and I just wanted to do what was right. And I think as a convert, you're also kind of easy to be persuaded because you don't have that background or foundation. You just have to find it through your social surroundings and that was hard. But I also think it was necessary because somehow I was left in a void, and in that void I found myself again. And I think there's a time and space for everything. I remember I was dj:ing one day, and then the next day I put on my hijab. It was a very quick transition for me but I was very determined and knew this was what I needed in my life. And I knew creativity would always be there. I just need to find a new outlet.

I think everything just comes full circle somehow because now I'm starting to dabble in music again and that's interesting. And it's also like a healing journey I think, because sometimes when you give up on something there's also some sadness in that, some grief in that. And I think that's important for artists to never put yourself in a box because society can put you in that but you can also do that to yourself. And I feel like if art is not free it's not art really. I don't think that is art. Art needs to be free. And I think in my process it's also like what I spoke about earlier, I need to be in a state of consciousness because I need to tune into my intuition and really listen deeply. And I think your intuition is a muscle, the more you listen to it the stronger it gets and the more you can hear it in a very noisy room. So, and that's your connection with God, the Almighty.

How do you balance independent creation with the outside world's interpretations of your art?

Something I hear a lot lately is "But are you sure you don't want to go to art school?" because I'm a self-taught artist. And I always say "No, my father was my art school, so I don't think I need to." There's so many self-taught artists in history. But I feel like in Sweden its very narrow. Like, you have to pursue it this way or the other. And if you don't you're not recognized by the cultural elite. And in that cultural elite, it's not only white people, there's also non-white people that think this way. It's important to understand because often when we speak about the art scene in Sweden, we think that it's how it was back in the days. Now it's slowly changing, but I think the structures are still there even though there's more non-white people in spaces of influence. So when it comes to the gaze and how people perceive you for me it's very important to really do my best not to care at all. And as I've said, if I don't feel free in my art I will close my art studio that same day and just end it because that's not why I'm an artist. No, I think for many years it was hard I never struggled with how I see myself as an artist and what I want to say with my art, my intentions, but sometimes it's hard to make it digestible for others. But I think I've come to terms with how everyone doesn't have to understand it the way I intended it to. And I think it's okay if you perceive it the way you do. That's okay I just leave it to the world, and if it's one person that sees it or 3,000 people that sees it doesn't really matter to me at all.

What themes or messages do you find yourself returning to in your work, and what compelled you to explore them?

My work is mostly influenced by my lived experiences, my heritage, and everything I’ve been through. But it’s also shaped by the world around us and how it affects people in different ways. There’s often this question of whether art is political. I don’t see politics in a narrow sense. I’m a political scientist by profession, and I work in humanitarian aid, so I’m deeply engaged with global issues. I was also politically active as a teenager. But over time, I realized that maybe that path wasn’t fully for me—that perhaps I could make an impact by sharing stories visually and connecting with people through art. I try to keep the two—art and politics—somewhat separate. I don’t believe art has to be political. Of course, everything can be interpreted politically, especially in today’s world. But for me, art is spiritual first. It’s deeply rooted in my culture. Depending on who’s looking, the work may be perceived as political, and that’s valid too.

I’ve been invited to talk about my art with politicians, and my message is always this: culture matters. It’s not just about the artwork itself—it's about inclusion. We need to be included in that environment. Especially now, it’s vital that artists are given space, because we absorb what’s happening in the world and transform it into something people can connect with. It’s about finding the humanity in all of it. We all share common experiences, but when we look at the political landscape, we tend to focus on our differences. I believe art has the power to connect us. That’s something I often notice during my exhibitions, a woman in her 70s will approach me and say, 'I’ve lived through this. Even though we may have nothing in common in terms of where we’re from, our culture, or religion, she can still understand what I was trying to express. Art becomes a bridge.

It’s also a form of healing. I created an art collection during a very personal time—my divorce after seventeen years of marriage. Each piece I made was part of my healing process. In a way, we give a piece of our soul in our artwork. That’s why it feels so emotional and vulnerable.

In the group exhibition MIN at Botkyrka Konsthall, there seemed to be recurring themes around identity, place, and cultural representation. Can you talk about how those themes came through in your work and why they continue to resonate with you?

Yes, I’m currently exhibiting at Botkyrka Konsthall alongside Amara Por Dios and Leon Mendoza. The theme of the exhibition is centered around the concept of förorten—which is difficult to fully translate, but it refers to the suburbs, often with a specific cultural and social context.

When I was first invited, it felt like a natural fit. I had been wanting to do an exhibition like this for a long time. They reached out to me, and I realized I had so much archived material that I’d never had the right space to show before.

But I also didn’t want it to fall into the stereotypical portrayal of förorten—what people often call orten konst. Over the past 15 years, there’s been a shift. Back then, the idea of suburban art was often tied to street culture. And while that’s one part of it, the reality is that we come from these neighborhoods and create in such diverse ways. I think that diversity really came through in the exhibition.

It probably wasn’t what people expected when they heard the theme. My contribution, for example, includes a mix of archived materials—primarily street photography. One piece is nearly four meters long, a collage of photographs I’ve collected over the years. In a way, it feels like I’ve been subconsciously waiting for this moment, because I honestly don’t know where else I could have shown this work outside of Botkyrka Konsthall.

It's about capturing the beauty of our neighborhoods. It reminds me so much of my own upbringing. I always say—we played outside, and it felt like we had the whole world around us. There were people from Chile, Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, Ethiopia, Somalia. But what did that really mean? And how did the first generation pass on their values and cultural traditions? When I was growing up, we had an Ethiopian Orthodox Church in Lund, and that space played a huge role in shaping my cultural foundation. Even though I later converted to Islam, that church and its community were a big part of my early life.

These communal spaces our parents built weren't easy to create. I remember many of them couldn’t even speak Swedish at the time, but they still managed to organize, form communities, and do their best. Every weekend we had gatherings we cooked our traditional food, came together, and built something lasting. In this exhibition, I wanted to honor that. To pay tribute to the sacrifices they made for us, and to the rich heritage they carried centuries, even dynasties, of resilience, struggle, and strength. In Sweden today, we’re often seen as a problem, instead of being recognized for that strength and sacrifice. I wanted to challenge that narrative, to highlight the beauty and value in our heritage. This exhibition felt like the perfect space to do that.

I also made a short film for the first time—it was a new experience for me. I spent two weeks going around, meeting people, reconnecting with these roots. I visited a Senegalese Sufi congregation in Vårberg and spent time with them during Ramadan. I also visited the Ethiopian Orthodox Church in Hagsätra, which was part of my upbringing. It felt meaningful to bring all of that back together both to reflect and to share it with others.

There’s also a spiritual strength in these communities—something I think is essential for our survival, but often misunderstood by white society. The public conversation tends to focus on crime or other social issues, but without these spiritual and communal spaces, many of us wouldn’t have made it through what we’ve experienced.

When I lived in Malmö, I remember being a new Muslim. In Rosengård, there were two small masjids—almost like little musallas. One of them was Somali, and I’ll never forget the older women there. I felt like an orphan in a way, I didn’t have parents or anyone guiding me through this new spiritual journey. But these women, even though most of them didn’t speak Swedish, they nurtured me into this spiritual new world. That’s something truly powerful and unifying among Muslims.

Later, when I lived in Medina, I experienced that same unity. People come there from all over the world, and yet, there’s this shared sense of belonging, of being part of something greater, no matter what your background is or what you’ve gone through.

That’s one of the things I’ve tried to express in this exhibition. I also connected with the Finnish Roma community who are very marginalized. They're very secluded and they don't let anyone in, because of obvious reasons. But stepping into their world was important to me. It pushed me out of my comfort zone and reminded me that even though I grew up in a multicultural environment, there’s always more to learn. Understanding others is a powerful asset.

Even when I visit Ethiopia, people there are surprised by the things I know—how I might say a word in Kurdish, for example. They can’t always understand how we were raised, but for us, it was normal. You’d go into one neighbor’s home and eat their food, then visit another with a totally different culture. And that’s beautiful. That, to me, is what förorten really is. It’s why I’ve made a conscious choice to continue living here even with three kids, even with all the challenges. These spaces feel like home to me, and I never want to give up on that.

What does it mean for you to be the 'odd one out' especially in art spaces? Is that a feeling you relate to, and how has it shaped your experience as an artist?

Definitely. And it’s not just in white spaces—I often feel like the odd one out even among non-white communities. At the exhibition, for example, people would ask, “You have three kids—why do you still live here? Isn’t it dangerous?”

A lot of people from my generation have moved to the inner city, and even their parents no longer live in these neighborhoods. So I end up feeling out of place in many different settings—even among Muslims. My story just doesn’t follow the same path as most others.

I’ve often felt like an outsider, even within Black spaces, especially coming from a mixed background. For me, it’s always been important to be honest and authentic. The moment I feel like I have to shift my identity or perception of myself to fit in, that’s a major red flag. That’s when I know I need to take a step back and reclaim my space.

There have been times when I’ve taken breaks— three, four months without accepting any exhibitions or responding to emails just to reconnect with what feels true to me.

When I moved back to Sweden after living abroad, I was honestly overwhelmed with anxiety, and I didn’t understand why. I was raised here. I’ve lived in this country my entire life. So why did the idea of having an art practice here bring so much unease?

Looking back, I think it’s because of how I speak about God and spirituality — especially as part of my creative process. In Sweden, you can talk about almost anything, but the moment you bring up God, it makes people uncomfortable, even those who were raised in religious households.

And sometimes, even in non-white spaces, there's pressure to adapt to the norms of the larger society. That often means peeling away layers of yourself. So when someone like me comes in, unapologetically holding onto those layers, it can create a sense of friction or imbalance. And in those moments, it can feel like there’s no space for that honesty—that maybe it’s not always welcome.

Living in a secular country it can often feel like many people view faith as something abstract or intangible, so instead they gravitate toward what feels more logical or concrete. Meeting an artist whose work is deeply rooted in spirituality, it can feel too mystical.

Exactly. But it’s not considered mystical when you do yoga, and it’s not mystical when you engage in other practices. But when it comes to Islam, it’s like, “What is this...?” What’s interesting is that people often speak so much about Islam and Muslims, yet they know so little about the spiritual practice of Islam, you know?

We had an exhibition—I think it was last summer. There were six or seven Muslim women participating, and I believe it was the first time in Swedish history that Muslim women held an exhibition like that. It included artists like Nachla Libre and others. I held a workshop there that was connected to intuition and spirituality. Interestingly, only two of the attendees were Muslim; the rest were non-Muslim. And they said things like, “I feel so much better after this workshop—it gave me such calm and peace.”

I think we really need to open that path to reconnect with the spiritual side of Islam. I understand that for many Muslims, we’ve had to fight so hard just to explain ourselves—why we dress a certain way, why we do things differently. So it becomes focused on the external aspects and rituals. But we also need to talk about the love of God, about creation. For me, I create but the ultimate inspiration is the Creator Himself. Everything I do is somehow connected to that.

Photo by Saba Tadele

About Saba Tadele
Saba Tadele is a Stockholm-based artist with roots in Ethiopia and Afghanistan. Her interdisciplinary practice spans painting, sculpture, photography, and poetry.

https://www.sabatadele.com
instagram.com/sabatadele/