Dua Saleh: Cheeky Lover

It is morning in LA when I start my video call with Dua Saleh. The sun meets their face from the opposite window, the air conditioning rustles gently in the background, and behind them, I can just about make out a nice, spacious apartment. The trans* non-binary American-Sudanese singer and actor wears a casual, oversized hoodie and smiles into the camera. When they speak, I get an eerie sense of familiarity, as though I have heard this voice countless times – until I remember I actually have: Saleh is known for their experimental R&B-infused electronic sounds and for passionate storytelling that ignites queer joy and delves into the depths of the inner self. As an actor, they gained worldwide acclaim for their role as Cal in the Netflix series Sex Education. Now, they have reached a new milestone in their career with the release of their debut album, I SHOULD CALL THEM – an album exploring environmental anxieties in a pre-apocalyptic world, as well as spiritual power, resilience, and the magic of love.

As Saleh tells me about the hummingbirds they saw this morning, and how they made them smile, we start our interview and dive into a deep conversation about queerness in the music industry and how to protect one’s artistic freedom.

SLEEK:  Dua, are you a romantic person?

DUA SALEH:  Oh yes, definitely. I fall pretty fast and pretty hard. I actually think one reason for that is the hub of poetry in East African culture. Many people I grew up with wrote love poems to each other. So, it’s just natural for me. I can’t help it.

S:  It sounds really passionate! The single ‘want’ from your upcoming album I SHOULD CALL THEM is also about same-sex love and the wish for commitment and reliability. Do you feel like people are more hesitant to commit to something or someone these days?

DS:  I think it’s kind of hard to hold people’s attention span today, and therefore it’s hard to commit to anything. I mean, there are a lot of things that have changed: TikTok with its short videos, Instagram Reels, and even songs that are barely longer than two minutes. I feel like the concept of ‘long-term’ doesn’t exist anymore. I don’t think it’s anyone’s fault, but it’s definitely hard to keep a conversation going without getting bored. 

S:  As a queer artist, do you experience the music industry as welcoming?

DS:  That’s complicated. Luckily, I’m surrounded by people within the industry who see beyond the various factors that shape my identity, like being a refugee from Sudan, being trans* non-binary, or even being a dark-skinned person who is often perceived as femme. The people I work with are truly passionate about my music. It’s kind of a protective layer for me. But I also know that it can be more difficult for others, especially right now in the US, where politics influence sociocultural thinking.

S:  You started writing poetry when you were younger but stopped in order to pursue music. What does music offer you that poetry doesn’t?

DS:  One thing that music offers me is a space for catharsis beyond war and trauma. Music doesn’t have to be sad all the time. Poetry, on the other hand, was actually just me working through my trauma. During high school, I was doing competitive poetry, and a lot of what they want from you there is trauma dumping. My body rejected that. When I started just humming to myself with self-soothing music, I stopped doing poetry and started doing music instead. Music allows me to heal outside of trauma and also provides a space for joy.

S:  It must be amazing to see your music make other people happy as well.

DS:  It’s actually really humbling, especially if they sing and dance along.

S:  Since then, you have worked on some pretty amazing projects, including the video for ‘Sugar Mama’ and also your appearance as Cal in Sex Education. What do you have in common with Cal, and what are the differences between you?

DS:  Cal’s angsty teenage persona reminds me a lot of the new album I’m releasing. Through playing them, I actually tapped into a lot of their teenage crush feelings for Jackson and Aisha and could relive childlike wonder. Beyond that, we dress the same, though maybe I’m a bit more femme than Cal. I often put on makeup, probably because of the industry’s pressure to feminise myself. Cal would never do that.

S:  Why do you feel like you have to feminise yourself?

DS:  It’s definitely a cultural thing. There’s a lot of pressure on women to represent femininity. People will respect you more and give you more access to power if they perceive you as desirable. I try to see it as a form of artistic expression or as war paint, but right now, I’ve had to take a break from putting on makeup. I felt a deep discomfort with it that can be harmful to my soul if I’m not careful.

S:  What did you learn from portraying someone else in front of the camera?

DS:  The hardest part about it was being disciplined enough to remain within character, as well as allowing yourself to feel emotions that may be hard for you. When we filmed the cliff scene of the final season of Sex Education, I remembered I had also dealt with suicidal ideation. It was difficult for me to really get myself into Cal’s mindset of wanting to get top surgery at the time, just because I was dealing with my own things with my body and rebelling against it. I had to tap back into those memories, even though it was difficult and dark. In the end, it was good for me: Later, I wrote the song ‘daylight falls’ – I wouldn’t have been able to write it if I hadn’t confronted those memories.

S: What advice would you give to other young trans* non-binary artists?

DS: Trans* people are cheeky. We enjoy love, partying, and sometimes even toxicity. There are so many different ways to exist outside of yourself and to exist as trans*. Don’t let the music industry pressure you into talking about your queer identity if you don’t want to. Talk about whatever you want. It’s your choice. It doesn’t always have to be about dark experiences; there can also be queer joy, queer party music, and queer love songs. Don’t let the labels make money out of your identity – and don’t do competitive poetry.

As featured in SLEEK 82 – BALANCE. Available in print and digital here.