At NYU Abu Dhabi, storytelling is increasingly shaping how research connects with the world. Social scientist and filmmaker Saba Karim Khan is at the forefront of that shift. Her documentary W.R.A.P. (We Really Are Pakistan) – now selected for the UK Asian Film Festival – explores identity, resilience, and the global language of hip-hop.
Your documentary W.R.A.P. (We Really Are Pakistan) has just been selected for the UK Asian Film Festival, alongside screenings and awards across multiple countries. What did that moment of recognition feel like, and what does it signal about the global resonance of this story?
Pakistan is often reduced to narrow stereotypes: terror, oppression, deprivation. Reality is far more nuanced. As a Pakistani, you are constantly pushing back against simplistic, caricatured narratives. Indie filmmaking offers a chance to tell a more three – dimensional story. There are glimmers of grit and hope tucked away throughout, and the story of these three rappers is one such example.
What recognition at festivals like the UK Asian Film Festival does is put Pakistan on the map for the right reason – revealing creativity, resilience, and hope alongside hardship. As an indie filmmaker, festival selections provide essential visibility and access to engaged audiences.
I always felt that the story of hip-hop would speak both a local and universal language. Ultimately, the heart of the film holds deeply human stories. Those travel and resonate across borders – it is part of the shared human condition.
Take us back to the beginning: what drew you to Gizri and to the lives of these underground hip-hop artists? Was there a specific encounter or moment that made you realize this needed to become a film?
I’d watched the Indian film Gully Boy years ago, and it left an indelible mark on me. I couldn’t help but think there must be a version of this in Pakistan. That’s where my search for Urdu rap began — I stumbled upon a thriving underground scene.
Gizri is an area historically marked by crime, violence, and addiction. As a filmmaker and an anthropologist, I was intrigued by the question of what pulls young people from Gizri towards this genre despite precarious circumstances. Why do they stay up late creating rap music in these alleys and on rooftops? I felt strongly about turning this apparent paradox into a story — which became W.R.A.P.
At the heart of the documentary is a powerful question: why art, and specifically rap, emerges from hardship. What answers did you uncover?
Whilst rap has historically emerged from spaces of angst and anger, as reflected in the film, what surprised me was how it also created a strong and enduring friendship between these boys. There is love and loss and longing, but also humour, grit, and guts. They’re not entirely dissimilar to other young boys their age.
Rap offers them a means to resist their circumstance, but also to rise above it. You might expect only hardship, but they refuse that narrative. They don’t settle for downsizing their dreams to fit their reality; they are looking to outsize their reality, to make it fit their dreams. That subverts so much of what we assumed before making the film.
From a social science perspective, how should we understand hip-hop as a language of identity?
The lives of these boys are riddled with day-to-day setbacks, and yet something is making them gravitate towards hip-hop music. It’s as if rap equips them with a language and vehicle to make meaning out of their lives. Listeners across the world feel seen and heard — that’s the power of art.
There’s also a collective effervescence. At a screening in Karachi, with the boys performing live, audiences from across the city came together. For a moment, class collapsed; it coalesced through rhythm and beat. You don’t often see that in Pakistan.
The film traces how rap travels globally. What does this reveal?
Whilst music travels, what struck me is that something more elemental travels with it: the hunger to be recognised, on one’s own terms. Accents, rhythms, and beats might change, yet the pulse of swagger, sweat, and dreams stays consistent with the human experience.
As both a social scientist and a filmmaker, how do these two modes intersect?
Anthropology lends itself beautifully and organically to filmmaking. I see this film as a form of visual ethnography — immersive and observational. Film rushes are like field notes.
Film also offers accessibility. It allows stories to reach audiences across borders and social divides. A camera capturing every movement, every alley, each expression offers an edge when you’re trying to tell a story with nuance and emotion, where body language and silences and place are protagonists, just as much as dialogue is.
Filming in Gizri came with real challenges. How did you navigate them?
There’s a responsibility when telling stories from communities different from your own. The aim was not to romanticize or exoticize. That’s why the boys tell their own stories — no imposed narration. We wanted to show, not tell.
Logistically, whilst it can be challenging to shoot in particular neighbourhoods, I found people to be curious, friendly, and welcoming in Gizri and Lyari. The grit and gravitas of these places are captured powerfully in the film, which is why shooting on location was essential. These spaces are not just settings — they are characters in the story.
How has your role at NYU Abu Dhabi supported this project?
NYU Abu Dhabi’s library is where I wrote my debut novel, curated my recent anthology, and created two documentaries. There is a rich stew of influences and ingredients through constant exchanges with colleagues, students, and everyday interactions.
NYU Abu Dhabi has also instilled possibilities of cross-pollination in me. So whilst I may be a social scientist, there’s room to experiment with films, novels, and creative nonfiction. The interdisciplinary prospects are vast and exciting.
For students and researchers in the social sciences at NYU Abu Dhabi, what opportunities exist to engage in similar projects?
Students often ask how to create impact beyond the classroom. The answer is simple: tell the story you can’t ignore. That conviction changes everything.
The projects I work on strive to tell stories through mediums that may be accessible to the wider community. Storytelling can take many forms — journalism, academic writing, short films, fiction. Nothing is too small. When someone across the world connects with your work, you realize how far it can travel.
As W.R.A.P. continues its festival journey, what impact do you hope it will have?
A few years ago, I heard a guest speaker at NYU share a version of Thoreau’s quote that went something like: most men and women lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them. He asked the class, “What’s your song?” Take five minutes and write your song on a piece of paper, then share it with the person sitting next to you. That morning, I realized storytelling is my song.
Incidentally, it is precisely this message that I found whilst filming W.R.A.P. — these boys have found their song and are singing it fearlessly. If there’s one thing I hope audiences take away from the film, it is to never relent on the quest to discover one’s song.
As W.R.A.P. continues its international festival run, Khan’s work underscores the growing role of storytelling as a tool for insight, connection, and impact. At NYU Abu Dhabi, where disciplines increasingly intersect, her approach highlights how social science can move beyond analysis to reach global audiences, translating lived experience into narratives that resonate far beyond the classroom.
Saba Karim Khan is an author, award-winning filmmaker, and instructor in the Social Science Division at NYU Abu Dhabi. Trained in social anthropology at the University of Oxford and currently pursuing a PhD at the University of Sussex, her work explores identity, social movements, feminism, and political change across the global South and the Gulf.