The 2021 debut single from Nemah Hasan (aka Nemahsis), “what if i took it off for you?” was not the most obvious candidate for a viral hit. But thanks to the lapel-seizing power of her voice, this raw piano ballad foregrounded a perspective rarely heard in the modern pop sphere: that of a Palestinian-Canadian hijabi woman who was hired to model for a seemingly progressive major brand, only to be told she would be getting paid in exposure. The song became an anthem for people of color who’ve also had to navigate the fine line between inclusivity and exploitation. eleven achers doesn’t stray too far from the striking, bare-bones appeal of Nemahsis’ breakthrough single, with her crystalline voice still the undeniable focus. But if “what if i took it off for you?” is conspicuous by its absence here, it may be because its sudden success made the Milton, Ontario, singer think more deeply about the stories she wanted to tell on her first proper record. “Once ‘what if I took it off for you?’ came out, a lot of people were very moved by it and felt empowered by it,” she tells Apple Music. “And then, there was also another group of people that was very angry about it. It was super scary because I forgot that I wasn’t just an artist making music—I’m also going against the grain by being a Muslim hijabi singer. So, I had to really think about what I was saying as well.” Here, she reveals the deeply personal inspirations behind eleven achers’ six tracks. “immigrant’s tale” “Even though my mom had the struggles of being a refugee immigrant in Canada, I would see her maneuver and be this strong woman. She would tell me stories about back home, where she grew up, and when I was in grade three, my mom finally saved up enough money for us to all go visit. And I started to see how everybody was treating her there. They were like, ‘You’re the one that got out!’ What they didn’t know is that being in North America doesn’t mean you’re rich. She was fleeing a war zone and married someone to basically be safe, but we couldn’t even make ends meet. So, this is the fairy tale of an immigrant. Back home, they have this image of hope, of her leaving the walls of Jericho and getting out. But in reality, she struggled more than they did. My mom’s whole purpose in life was sacrificing.” “suicide” “Growing up, I had to deal with the whole white-supremacist, ‘you’re not from here, go back to your country’ type of situation. And I always felt I was never welcomed by the non-Muslim community. So, I started to find friends that look like me, so I could be safer and more accepted. And then, in my twenties, I realized that there are also extremist Muslims that don’t want to support me. So, when I say, ‘Three nations want my head,’ it’s saying that the one bad apple can be anywhere. It could be a Trump supporter, or it could be someone at my mosque. They both see in extreme ways that I’m not accepted. But when I talk about ‘suicide,’ I don’t mean the actual killing of myself; it’s more about career suicide. Stereotypically, people think that when a hijabi speaks about suicide, it has something to do with 9/11 or something like that.” “dollar signs” “I wrote ‘dollar signs’ because the exact same situation that happened to me in ‘what if I took it off for you?’ happened to me again three years later. You think that every year that passes, things get more progressive, but in reality, they’re just getting better at hiding it. But ‘what if I took it off for you?’ was very vulnerable. It’s like, ‘You just found out someone cheated on you’—your heart breaks in the moment, you feel so insecure. And then, ‘dollar signs’ is a bit more empowering. It’s like, ‘It still hurts, but these are the receipts. This is how it feels to us—and don’t let it happen to you the way it happened to me.’ So, I think it has more of a lesson to it.” “i’m not gonna kill you” “I was sitting beside this guy on a plane, and he essentially asked to switch seats because he didn’t feel safe next to me. And it was like, ‘I’m right here!’ It’s different when people whisper about me when I’m leaving a room—but to see it happen right in front me, and to not even see me enough as a human to even care about being kind of polite about it? When men catcall women, we say, ‘Sorry, I’m not interested’—we still apologize, we’re so polite, we still lead when we shouldn’t. But this man is so terrified of my existence on a plane—a five-foot-nothing woman—and can’t even have the decency of trying to be respectful.” “paper thin” "Writing this song was one of the proudest moments, because I think it’s a song that younger me needed the most. The ‘paper thin walls’ represent beauty standards, they represent your limits in society, and what a woman can or cannot do. I spent the majority of my life just being in this box that I was told to be in, whether it was culturally, or socially, or being a Muslim woman in a predominantly white neighborhood, or even how pretty or fashionable I was allowed to be in high school. I allowed the world to control how big my box was. And then, one day I decided to just reach and see, and then I realized that the walls weren’t made of concrete—they were made of paper.” “hold on to me” “My aunt tried to pursue a music/acting career in early the ’90s, and her parents said that she wasn’t allowed because Muslim women don’t do this, and she ended up leaving home when she was 16. And she hasn’t really been found since. I wrote ‘hold on to me’ because I kind of picked up where she left 30 years later, and I got to do everything she didn’t get to do. I feel like she was guiding me through it in a way. It’s sad because I feel like I got the forgiveness and acceptance she didn’t get. My dad hired a private investigator in 2006, and he got ahold of her and that’s the time I got to meet her. But then, she ran away again within 48 hours, and she’s been a missing person ever since. I’m hoping that, one day, maybe she would hear this song and she would follow the music back to us.”