In the delicate interplay between East and West, where ancient traditions meet contemporary expression, there exists a voice that transcends borders and resonates with the echoes of her heritage. Namritha Nori, an Italian singer of Indian descent, brings her multifaceted identity into music that speaks to both the heart and soul.
From her early years in Italy, immersed in the rhythms of Venetian dialect, to her deep engagement with classical operatic traditions, Namritha’s musical journey has been one of rediscovery and self-exploration. Her latest album, Traces & Roots, embodies this evolution—fusing Sephardic, Anatolian, Arabic, and Indian influences through her unique perspective and emotive voice.
In this conversation, we dive into the heart of Namritha’s creative process, her reflections on identity and belonging, and the stories that shape her music. Join us as we explore her poetic melodies, and the powerful messages that resonate through her songs.
Your music deeply intertwines themes of identity and diaspora. How do you perceive the concept of “home,” and how has this influenced your artistry?
I was born in India, just a few meters from the ocean, surrounded by coconut and papaya trees and red-colored earth. I was raised in a foggy part of Italy, in a closed community often hostile to those who were different. Years later, I found myself searching for identity in the streets of India, my motherland, but also in Istanbul, where I lived, as well as in the Middle East, Lebanon, and North Africa.
To me, there are two kinds of home: geographical and inner. The first speaks through the voice of my ancestors—walking through Istanbul feels like a return to something visceral and ancient. Deep down, I feel I’ve lived there before; I sense my DNA in its scents and colors. The inner home is like a garden—it stays with you even when you’re far from beloved places. Both are vital. Feeling at home is a sense of peace: walking through Istanbul, Granada, or Beirut without yearning for more. It’s a present moment that needs nothing else.
It took me 30 years to begin the journey back to my roots. Music called me. The first time I heard Yiddish, Jewish, and Sephardic songs, I cried. My heart melted. That’s where my connection to the Middle East and Mediterranean began. Then came Indian music, my return to India, the discovery of Lebanon and my chosen family, Arabic music, and finally, Istanbul—my most beautiful home—and Anatolian folk music.
Though I spent two decades studying only Western classical music, I didn’t grow up in these traditions. That’s why I compose—to be free, to express this miracle of life in my own musical language. In the end, my diaspora and wound of abandonment turned me into an explorer—restless, curious, and open. My life has become a great adventure.
In your latest album Traces and Roots, you explore cultural heritage across East and West. What challenges and revelations have emerged during this search for your roots?
I rediscovered parts of myself that had long been unheard and misunderstood. The first journey back to India, after 30 years, profoundly changed my life and my perception of who I am. I realized that I am not only Italian and European, but also Indian. Above all, I experienced something I had never felt before—being among people who physically resemble me.
It wasn’t about judgment, but a sensation I had never experienced: looking at the hands of Indian women and seeing my own; their gazes, their facial features—they mirrored me, as if I was suddenly inside a large maternal womb. Having been adopted and raised in a predominantly white community, this was a surprising, almost shocking sensation. For those born among people who resemble them, this might be a normal feeling, but for me, it was revelatory.
From India, everything unfolded quickly and naturally. I found myself in Andalusia, Greece, Lebanon, and Turkey—lands that, on the surface, seemed unrelated to my story, yet felt deeply connected to me. There is something atavistic in these places. Perhaps even more so than in India, I feel at home there. It is the voices of my ancestors speaking to me.
Walking through the streets of Istanbul, I had vivid déjà-vu experiences, a visceral sensation of having walked these streets in a past life and encountered the stories of its people—Jews, Arabs, Greeks, Armenians. All of them, like my own, are stories of diaspora, persecution, journeys, and exploration. These identities flow through me, and I now find myself positioned between East and West, much like Istanbul itself.
You’ve described your journey as one of rediscovery and self-exploration. What advice would you give to others searching for their cultural or personal roots?
Go in search of the lands from which you come. Answer the call of these places—don’t waste time. Backpack on your shoulder, and go. Life is truly in the here and now. Search, explore, ask, and immerse yourself in the miracle of discovering who you are and where you come from. We are much more than we realize; we are also our past and the legacy of our ancestors, who continue to live in us.
Your fusion of classical opera training with Mediterranean, Anatolian, and Indian traditions is unique. How do you approach balancing these diverse influences in your compositions?
I’ve worked to make my compositional style unique by blending all the musical languages I’ve learned—my multiple identities. In my music, I am one hundred percent authentic. I love experimenting and mixing, just like I am. I also collaborate with the talented musicians who arrange my songs, but the melodies, structures, and lyrics are my own creation. They often come to me while I’m walking down the street, driving, or dreaming at night.
You sing in multiple languages, from Spanish to Venetian dialect. How do you choose the language for each song, and what role does language play in your storytelling?
Often, it’s not me who chooses the language of my songs—the language chooses me. Some lyrics come out spontaneously, especially in Spanish and French (I learned French as a child, and Spanish brings me back to Sephardic music, my great love). For other songs, I have my poems translated into Arabic or Greek, drawing from languages that feel closest to my identities.
The story behind the Venetian dialect is more complex. I was one year old when I was adopted, and I spoke only a few words, maybe in Kannada (a Dravidian language spoken predominantly in the state of Karnataka in southwestern India, and spoken by a minority of the population in all neighbouring states) or English. When I arrived in Italy, the first “language” I learned was not Italian, but the Venetian dialect of the Veneto region (not Venice city itself!). In Italy, every region has its own dialect, and people are very attached to these traditions. Italian came later for me. Perhaps this is why it’s much easier for me to compose in Venetian dialect than in Italian—it’s the language of my childhood memories, the language of my hills.
Do you have any particular rituals or environments that help spark your creativity? How do different places influence your compositions?
Traveling and exploring are my rituals. I rarely find inspiration while staying still in a closed space. Almost all the melodies I’ve composed were born while walking through my beloved cities—Seville, Istanbul, Venice, a Greek island, Lebanon—or while being in contact with nature. I need movement, connection with my roots, and the music of those places.
Arrangements can happen in the studio, but if they took away my freedom to travel, I would no longer be able to compose.
photo by Gianni Marigo
What role does creative chemistry play when selecting the artists you work with, and how do you know when a collaboration is the right fit?
It’s difficult to explain in words; it’s more about sensations. First and foremost, there must be understanding and a shared set of values, both political and humanitarian. Social and political activism plays a significant role in my life and often inspires my music. I could never work with musicians who don’t share a sensitivity similar to mine.
Musically, it’s essential to collaborate with people who can work and arrange without needing a score, and who have the flexibility to blend traditional languages (for example, Anatolian or Greek folk music) with more modern Western styles.
Your music bridges multiple cultural heritages. What do you hope audiences take away from your music about the beauty of diversity and the connections between different traditions?
I hope my audience takes with them the vibrant red of the earth and the power of the ocean from my India; the vision of steaming chai and the lavender vendors of Istanbul; the yellow expanses of the hills of Lebanon; the scents of myrtle and lemon from the Mediterranean; the courage in the voices of the women who passed down many of the melodies I sing; and the sense of freedom to explore beyond borders—whether musical, geographical, or spiritual.
Above all, I hope they come to realize that we are all the result of mixtures and migrations—nomads by nature.
The cover of Traces and Roots features two striking versions of yourself—one in modern attire and the other in traditional Indian dress. What story does this image tell?
The artwork of my album represents who I am: both Indian and European. Born and raised between East and West, India is my source, my past—the Motherland that continues to live in me. My European identity is my present, which I keep alive by drawing inspiration from the mystery and colors of the East. Perhaps the next album will feature a more explicit reference to Anatolia and the Middle East!
Finally, which one do you prefer—watermelon or melon?
Watermelon. Always.
interview: Sofia Hussein for Dinya
photos: courtesy of Namritha Nori
