Hasan Raheem’s latest offering to the world, ‘Bewajah’ [Without Reason], is a song that is food for the melophile soul. It pushes boundaries and experiments with electronic layering in both music and vocals. The song’s production is as beautifully complex as the messaging in the poetry it uses.
I love the experimental, avant-garde nature of Raheem’s work in ‘Bewajah’. I suspect that most people may not love the song at first, but will grow to do so over time.
‘Bewajah’ is a song that feels both intimate and deeply rooted in place. Known for blending contemporary pop with the sonic textures of his northern heritage, Raheem continues to carve a space where modern longing meets the cultural memory of Gilgit-Baltistan.
‘Bewajah’ unfolds as a melancholic dialogue — two perspectives suspended in emotional limbo. Built on sparse, traditional percussion and a stripped-back melodic structure, the song leans into stillness, allowing the weight of unsaid words to linger. Raheem’s vocal delivery is restrained yet piercing, echoing the isolation of mountain landscapes that seem to inform both his sound and sensibility.
In his latest single, ‘Bewajah’, Hasan Raheem transforms a story of love and miscommunication into something far more expansive that is rooted in the language, landscapes and traditions of Gilgit-Baltistan
What makes this track interesting is that the producer, Umair Tahir, has layered several tracks of percussion over each other — one even sounds oddly similar to the galloping sound of horses’ hooves. The vocal tracks are layered over each other, making the song sound like something out of a vivid dream, wherein one reality merges into another.
The first verse introduces a man who chooses separation over inevitable betrayal, portraying a relationship starved of emotional reassurance. His longing is quiet but persistent; he waits, he hopes and, ultimately, he withdraws. His reference to his partner’s sarkashi [rebellion] suggests not just defiance, but a kind of emotional distance he cannot bridge.
The narrative then pivots. In a mirrored monologue, a woman’s lyrical persona interrogates the relationship from her own vantage point — questioning whether love ever truly existed. Her grief is sharper, edged with accusation. She speaks of unmet needs, of carrying the burden of his unresolved pain, and ultimately reframes the break-up as his failure to stay emotionally present.
What elevates ‘Bewajah’ beyond a conventional break-up ballad is its linguistic and cultural layering. Raheem weaves in Shina (a language spoken in Gilgit-Baltistan) during the bridge — a deliberate artistic choice that grounds the song in his heritage. In doing so, he not only expands the sonic palette of Pakistani pop but also introduces wider audiences to a language and cultural identity often underrepresented in mainstream media.
Across his work, Raheem has quietly positioned himself as a cultural conduit, bringing elements of Gilgiti life — its rhythms, dialects and emotional landscapes — into the national consciousness. The music video deepens this connection to the place.
Set against the dramatic backdrop of northern Pakistan, it centres on a game of polo — not the manicured, codified version familiar to global audiences, but the raw, high-altitude freestyle variant played in the mountains. This form of polo, most famously showcased at the Shandur Polo Festival, is often described as the “game of kings” in its most primal form: no referees, minimal rules and an intensity that mirrors both the terrain and the people.
Polo itself carries centuries of history, tracing back to ancient Central Asia before evolving across regions such as Persia, Tibet and the northern areas of present-day Pakistan. In Shandur Pass — home to one of the highest polo grounds in the world — the sport becomes more than a game; it is a cultural ritual, a communal gathering, and a symbol of identity. By situating ‘Bewajah’ within this setting, Raheem draws a powerful parallel between the chaos of the sport and the emotional turbulence of love and loss.
Visually, the contrast is striking. Dressed in white and subtly adorned, Raheem stands apart from the largely black-clad crowd, embodying both observer and participant. As horses thunder across the field and snow-capped peaks loom in the distance, his introspection gives way to immersion — suggesting that, like the players, he too is caught in something uncontrollable.
In promoting the video, Raheem made it a point to highlight that this is not the “gentrified” version of polo seen internationally, but a freer, more visceral form. His invitation to audiences — to witness it in person, to understand it — feels consistent with his broader artistic mission: to not just make music, but to open windows into a culture often overlooked.
In that respect, Raheem has always left little easter eggs in his music and social media presence that pay homage to his heritage and culture in Gilgit-Baltistan.
In ‘Joona’, for example, he performs a verse in Shina in the middle of the song. In ‘Sweetu’, he is seen walking on the streets of Gilgit-Baltistan with his co-artists. His wedding, which went viral, showed him never missing an opportunity to perform his traditional dance and celebrate the unique colours of his culture. In his own way, he constantly promotes and educates people about his culture. Gilgit-Baltistan couldn’t have asked for a better ambassador.
With ‘Bewajah’, Raheem doesn’t just tell a story of heartbreak. He situates it within geography, language and tradition… reminding listeners that even the most personal emotions are shaped by where we come from.
Originally published in Dawn, ICON, April 12th, 2026
