House of Us: Farah on Belonging, Identity & the Art of Finding Home
By Unmixed Magazine
Foreword:
Some stories don’t need translation. They live in the pauses between languages, in the space that says everything you can’t explain.
Farah’s story is one of those.
Egyptian, French-educated, American, and unmistakably her own. She’s the mind and spirit behind House of Us, a NYC-based event series launched in 2025.
Below, she speaks with us about identity, healing, and what it means to build a home when you exist in the in-between.
Farah, I know you personally, but for those who don’t, introduce yourself in your own words. Or better yet, through a song, a quote, a memory… even a voice memo if you're feeling creative. We’re all ears.
I’m Egyptian first and foremost, born and raised. I’m French-educated. I’m American. And, of course, I'm a DJ, producer, and event organizer. I’m a little bit of nowhere and everywhere in between.
For a long time, I struggled to make sense of the mix of things that make me me, to find a version of myself that didn’t feel like I had to mute one part to let another speak.
Music became the place where all of those layers could sit at the same table. It’s not fusion for the sake of aesthetics; it’s survival. It’s storytelling. It’s how I exist in a world that often asks you to pick a side. I simply can’t pick a side. I am all of them.
Which is why, when you find me DJing or producing, you’ll find songs from all over, songs in languages I speak or don’t, songs from countries I’ve been to and haven’t.
Here’s a song that perfectly conveys me, and happens to combine English, French, and Creole while doing so:
🎧 Naika - Layers
Instead of the usual “what inspired you,” let’s go deeper. Was there a moment when you just knew these events had to happen?
There was a time when I felt like I was grieving so many things at once. Trying to keep up with friends through screens. Loving and losing across time zones. Missing family, missing home, missing a version of life that always felt just out of reach.
When you live in the in-between, everything becomes a trade-off.
And yet somehow, New York held all of that for me. It lit something in me I didn’t even know was there. It was the first place I could exist fully, no translation needed, no part of myself tucked away to fit in.
I lost New York for a bit, trying to find myself in other places, but now I’m back, and it clicked: if this city can break you open, maybe it can help you rebuild too.
And I wanted to create a space that did just that, not just for me, but for anyone carrying something unspoken.
That’s why the heart of House Of Us is simple: one house, all of us.
It’s more than a party. It’s a space to come as you are and feel seen.
Because at the end of the day, music heals. And community does, too.
What do you feel sets House of Us apart from other party crews in NYC?
We’re creating a space that’s rooted in culture without putting it on display.
It’s not about proving anything; it’s about making people feel at home, especially those who’ve never fully felt that in nightlife.
It’s a place where you can bring your full self, your language, your background, your in-between, and be met with warmth.
And we film every set, not for content, but to platform our people.
To give visibility to artists who don’t always get the spotlight, and to create a digital footprint that’s made by all of us, for all of us.
What's been the biggest challenge so far, and how did you move through it?
The hardest part has been battling the fear that this might not work. That I’m building something too personal, too outside the norm. That people won’t get it, or worse, won’t care.
But I realized that fear is boring. Playing it safe is boring.
And if I’m not building something that feels a little risky, a little too real, then what’s the point?
I move through it by betting on myself, and on the people I’m doing this for.
Because once you stop looking for permission, everything opens up.
If you could give your younger self one piece of advice before starting all this, what would it be?
It’s going to take time, but you’ll get there.
The doubt, the delays, the heartbreaks, they suck, but they’re not detours, they’re part of the path.
Trust the process.
It’s going to lead you to places you couldn’t have imagined.
And one day, you’ll look around and realize you built something real, because you felt it first.
What's your main goal with House of Us? How do you define success in this scene?
More than anything, I want House Of Us to be both a successful party and a powerful platform.
A space that brings real crowds in person and real human interactions online.
Not just to dance, but to listen.
Success, for me, is when people from all over the world tune in, not just for the vibe, but for the voice of each artist we feature.
Because every set we film, every story we spotlight, is part of a larger narrative: that our sounds, our cultures, and our identities deserve to take up space, loudly and unapologetically.
If there is no seat at the table, we make our own table and grow it ourselves.
Give us a peek into your next event. What can people expect?
A room full of people who feel like they were meant to find each other.
Expect curated sets from artists with something to say, and a space that lets them say it.
It’ll be filmed, but it won’t feel like content.
It'll feel like presence.
by all of us, for all of us.
Ok, time to wrap, but you get the last word. What do you wish people asked you in interviews, but never do?
This is going to be unnecessarily deep, but I wish people asked: “Have you found home yet?”
Lana Lubany said it best:
“They say home is where the heart is / But what if you don’t have one? / Would it be where I’m most honest? / I say home is where my art is / My penmanship’s my anthem.”
That line has lived in me ever since I heard it.
Because for so many of us, especially those who exist in the in-between, home isn’t a fixed place.
It’s not where we’re from, or even where we are.
It’s where we’re most honest.
That’s what House Of Us is for me.
A space where I don’t have to choose between my identities.
Where the music speaks the parts I don’t have words for.
Where art becomes home.
And every time someone feels that too, I know I’m not alone in the search.
