Masta Quba on music and the power of collective resistance

Firstly, could you give us a little idea of your route into music?

I was introduced to Hip-Hop in Mexico a long time ago, and it immediately became a powerful way for me to express myself and make sense of the world around me. I started as a rapper, writing and performing, and over time I became increasingly interested in the social and political power of Hip-Hop.

About eight years ago, I began developing my work professionally, not only as an artist but also as an educator. I started creating and facilitating Hip-Hop workshops, particularly with women, dissident communities, young people, and those in vulnerable situations.

Hip-Hop gave me a voice, but it also taught me about collective power, resistance, and the importance of creating spaces where people can tell their own stories.

In what ways did your context shape your music and your approach to performance, at the outset? 

Growing up and starting my career in Mexico deeply shaped the way I understand Hip-Hop. I was surrounded by social inequality, violence, machismo, and racism. I experienced many of these realities in my own life. Hip-Hop became a way for me to process those experiences, question the systems behind them, and turn them into something collective.

This is why my music has always had a strong political and social dimension. I talk about racism, sexism, migration, colonialism, resistance, healing, and collective power, but I also want my music to create connection and hope.

My approach to performance is very connected to this. I don't see the stage as a space where only the artist speaks; I see it as a space for exchange and collective energy. I want people to feel represented, challenged, empowered, and connected to each other.

Can you speak about the barriers to success in music you faced back then?

When I was developing my career in Mexico, there were many barriers to succeeding as an independent woman in Hip-Hop. The music industry was, and still is, strongly shaped by machismo and racism. Opportunities were often concentrated around male artists. As a woman, I had to work much harder to have my voice taken seriously and to access professional opportunities.

There were also financial barriers. Independent artists often have to invest their own money in recording, production, promotion, travel, and performances, while opportunities to earn a sustainable income are limited. This made building a long term career extremely difficult.

At the same time, these experiences shaped the kind of artist I became. I couldn't separate my music from the realities around me. Hip-Hop was born from communities responding to inequality, structural racism and exclusion, so for me it naturally became a language for speaking about racism, sexism, violence, and social injustice.

My activism-focused approach didn't come from wanting to be different from other musicians. It came from understanding music as a political space where I could speak about what was happening around me, connect with people experiencing similar realities, and transform individual experiences into collective resistance.

Before your move to Spain, what were some of the issues that you were trying to address through work?

My music and activism were deeply connected to racism, sexism, violence, inequality, and social injustice. One of the main issues I focused on was femicide and gender-based violence. Mexico is a country where around 13 women are victims of femicide every day, and I also lost a friend to femicide. This made the issue deeply personal for me and strengthened my commitment to speaking about violence against women and challenging its normalization.

I was focused on creating spaces where women and young people could use Hip-Hop to tell their own stories, reclaim their voices, and challenge the systems that oppressed them.

I wanted to show that Hip-Hop could be much more than entertainment: it could be a tool for political expression, education, healing, and collective resistance.

Can you talk about your move from Mexico to Spain? When did that happen? What precipitated the move, and what challenges and, perhaps, rewards did the move offer? 

I moved from Mexico to Spain three years ago, after experiencing a situation of violence that made it unsafe for me to remain in my country. Leaving was not a decision I made lightly. I had already built a professional career in Mexico, and suddenly I had to leave behind my networks, my community, my work, and many of the structures I had spent years building.

Arriving in Spain meant starting almost from zero as an artist, rebuilding my professional life almost from scratch. I had to learn how the cultural and music industries worked in a new country, build new relationships, find opportunities, and establish myself again while also navigating the challenges of being a migrant and a racialized woman. But I continued developing my artistic and educational practice. It has been difficult… I have experienced racism, precariousness, and a lack of representation within the cultural sector.

At the same time, migration has expanded my perspective and connected me with new communities, artists, and forms of collaboration. It has also made me understand migration not only as a political issue, but as a deeply personal experience. Starting again in a new country made me understand belonging, racism, and displacement in a much more personal way. This has become an important part of my artistic practice and has strengthened my commitment to creating spaces where migrant and racialized people can feel represented, heard, and connected.

How do you feel your practice has changed over time?

My practice has evolved a lot over the years, but the core of it has remained the same: using Hip-Hop as a tool to express what is often silenced and to build community.
Today, I see my practice as a combination of music, education, activism, and community work. I continue to make political music and challenge systems of oppression, but I also want to create spaces of joy, connection, healing, and empowerment.

What has never changed is my belief in the power of Hip-Hop to give people a voice, bring communities together, and transform personal experiences into collective strength.
For me, activism and music are inseparable. I don't see activism as something I add to my music; it is part of where my music comes from and why I create.

My songs allow me to tell stories, express anger, question systems of oppression, and share experiences that are often ignored or silenced. My workshops allow me to take that same political and creative practice into communities and create spaces where people can tell their own stories and build connections with one another.
They are different forms of expression, but they feed each other. What I learn from communities influences my music, and my music opens conversations that can continue through collective processes and workshops.

For me, Hip-Hop has always been more than a musical genre. It is a culture rooted in resistance, self-expression, and community. That is why I don't want to choose between being an artist and an activist. My artistic practice is one of the ways I practice resistance and build community.

What are the issues that you are most focused on today, in Spain? And how do you address them? 

Now I am particularly focused on sexism, racism, migration, and the lack of opportunities for migrant and racialized people within the cultural sector. As a migrant and brown woman, I have experienced how difficult it can be to access spaces, networks, and fair economic opportunities. I have also seen how migrant and racialized young people often lack spaces where they can express themselves, feel represented, and develop their own voices. I’ve experienced the precariousness of working in the arts as a migrant, including having fewer opportunities and, at times, being paid less because I am a migrant.

I’ve also experienced the emotional consequences of migration: loneliness, depression, displacement, and migratory grief. What has helped me navigate these experiences has been finding community with other migrants. There is something very powerful about meeting people who are going through similar experiences, being able to recognize ourselves in each other, and realizing that we are not alone.

Art has been an important part of that process for me, it’s given me ways to process what I have experienced and transform it into something creative and collective.

Can you speak a little about your workshops?

Workshops are a fundamental part of my artistic practice. For almost nine years, I have used Hip-Hop as an educational and community-based tool, working with women, young people, migrant and racialized communities, and people in situations of social vulnerability.

I have facilitated workshops in schools, community spaces, and prisons. The contexts are different, but the intention is similar: to create a space where participants can express themselves, tell their own stories, develop their creativity, and feel that their voices have value.

With young people, I use rap writing, rhythm, movement, and improvisation to explore themes such as identity, friendship, dreams, discrimination, racism, gender, and social inequalities. I don't approach these workshops with the outlook that I am simply teaching them something. I see workshops as a mutual learning process where everyone brings their own experiences and knowledge.

The people I meet, the stories they share, and the experiences we live together constantly feed my music and my way of working. Sometimes simply finding someone who shares a similar experience can make you feel less alone.

My workshops are spaces where this exchange becomes very visible. I bring my knowledge of Hip-Hop, but participants also bring their own stories, cultures, languages, and ways of understanding the world. We create something together.

My music works in a similar way. When I share my own experiences of migration, racism, sexism, grief, resistance, or healing, I often hear people say, “I have experienced something similar.” That recognition creates a connection between us.

Working with marginalized communities has also taught me a lot about my own practice. I have learned that sometimes the most important thing is not producing a perfect song or performance, but creating a space where someone feels heard for the first time.

In return, I hope my work gives people tools to express themselves, recognize their own strength, and connect with others. Whether through a song, a workshop, or a live performance, my goal is to create spaces where we can feel represented and find each other.

For me, community is not just what my work is about. It is how I make the work.

How do you hope that your work will change things for those you work with? And how do you plan to make use of the grant in realising those hopes? 

I want my work to help people recognize their own experiences and understand that they have the right to tell their stories, question the systems around them, and imagine different possibilities for their lives.

I hope to strengthen confidence, creativity, critical thinking, and a sense of belonging among those I work with. Sometimes having a space where your voice is taken seriously can be a powerful form of resistance in itself.

The grant has already made these hopes much more sustainable. Over the past eight months, I’ve been able to invest in completing my album, Ofrenda, including studio time, production, and other creative resources. It brings together many of the themes I’ve mentioned, which have shaped my journey.

Most importantly, this grant has given me something I have rarely had in my professional life: time. Time to create, to learn, and also to rest. After almost nine years of working constantly, having the possibility to slow down and enjoy my artistic practice has been deeply meaningful. This stability has allowed me to be more present in my work, both as an artist and as someone who works with communities.

Resistance is not only about surviving or fighting; it can also be about creating, connecting, resting, and enjoying what we build together.