How would you describe yourself and your work?

My name is Mohamed El-Amin, everyone calls me Mo. I’m Sudanese, based in Berlin. I’ve been surrounding my myself with music and organizing events since I was 17; parties, concerts, festivals. It’s where I found my people.

One of my projects is the festival Wild Combination, which started last year. I also run Endless Groove, a nonprofit party I started in Stockholm with my friend Edo about three and a half years ago. Before that, in Dubai, I was running Endless Boogie from my backyard – daytime parties with music, food, and friends. They grew from 30 to 200 people, like a block party. It was fully DIY – speakers, cooking, bar – and any profit went to the donations like Red Crescent.

In Sweden, Endless Groove became a nonprofit with a mission: rethinking nightlife. We turned parties into daytime events, all-ages, starting with shared meals from immigrant-run restaurants so people could connect before dancing. We’d book one DJ for 7–8 hours, allowing real musical journeys.

I also started Black Is… to showcase BIPOC voices who often struggle to get bookings. That’s been running for two or three years now.

Everything I do focuses on creating spaces where people connect. I love nightlife, but I think it’s often done wrong, too commercial, too transactional. All my lasting friendships came from music and events, so I feel protective of these spaces.

Wild Combination is the culmination of all this: My love of festivals, my desire to create community. I’ve been to over 200 festivals. For me, it’s a utopian space where the outside world disappears for a few days. But festivals have become corporate, treating people like wallets with legs. I wanted to do something different, something with a higher purpose.

You said you started with 17, how did you get the DIY spirit so young?

I grew up in the UAE, which was very different then; no parties, no music scene. When I moved to Louisiana, I discovered live music and parties and, for the first time, felt I fit in. My first metal concert blew me away. I didn’t look like anyone there, but when the music hit, that all disappeared.

That experience shaped everything. The first festival I went to was the New Orleans Jazz Festival, seeing that many people coming together was transformative.

Later, in London, I went to Plastic People, a legendary 200-capacity club, and saw Theo Parrish play. Dark room, incredible sound, everyone moving as one… That night opened my mind to what music and sound can do.

Since then, I’ve been chasing festivals. When I lived in Dubai, I’d work all year, then spend summers in Europe doing 10–15 festivals in a row.

All of that early DIY energy – the need to organize, to gather people, to make something happen with limited resources – really set the foundation for how I work today.

How do you manage all this and when do you sleep?

[laughs] I’m a bad sleeper, four or five hours is enough. A lot of this comes from those early DIY raves where people brought their own speakers, set up decks, and threw a party just for the joy of it. It wasn’t about money, it was a necessity gathering your people. That spirit stuck with me.

I still think the best parties are the ones where you do everything yourself. Bring the sound, clean up after. It becomes more than just “I’m a DJ throwing a party.” It’s teamwork, it’s community. That’s how Endless Groove grew – every time we did it, people came up after saying, “This feels different. Can I help next time?” Soon we had a crew of volunteers.

We host it in a community centre in Stockholm. We carry the speakers upstairs, decorate, de-rig, clean floors. It’s exhausting but deeply fulfilling. People feel that when they walk in. They know this isn’t corporate, it’s just people trying to make a good feeling last.

What were the challenges when you first came to Berlin? How did you overcome them, and which ones are you still facing today?

Actually, I think I did Berlin the right way. I only moved here three years ago, but I had been coming to Berlin for about 10 or 15 years before that, just to see music and go dancing.

I used to do this thing where I’d pick a city where I didn’t know anyone and just go because I heard there was a good party or a great DJ playing. The way it always worked was: just go there, you’re going to meet friends. There’s always going to be someone dancing as much as you are, or singing lyrics as badly as you are, and you bond.

The next day people would exchange numbers: “Let’s hang out, let’s catch up.” Friendships just naturally grew that way. And honestly, that’s how I built nearly all my friendships.

So I had been doing Berlin that way for years, just never living here. When I finally moved, I was actually glad that I did it in my late 30s and not my late 20s, because I think the city would have taken more of a toll on me back then. [laughs] By the time I came here, I knew what I liked, and even more importantly, what I didn’t like.

I also already knew the city pretty well. Not as intimately as I do now, but enough to have a good grasp of it. So it was easier for me to avoid a lot of the struggles people face when they first arrive, like figuring out where to meet friends or how to find their spaces.

And of course, there was a big portion of luck. I found Refuge Worldwide, which has been so instrumental and meaningful for me. It became a hub for so many of my friendships. I’m now a resident there and host the weekly breakfast show.

A friend invited me on their show, which led to doing a guest show, and then it just built up from there. I’ve met so many incredible people through Refuge Worldwide. The crew who run it are some of the best human beings on the planet! Berlin would feel very different without them.

For me, Refuge Worldwide, 90 Mill, and a lot of other collectives are what make Berlin so dynamic. Much more so than the big clubs. I actually don’t really go to clubs here anymore. I usually just follow crews I trust, because I know they care about what they’re doing.

So in that sense, I’ve avoided many of the typical challenges. Of course, there are always issues with being an immigrant in Europe in general. But I think I found my people here a lot more easily, just because Berlin is so brilliant and diverse.

So yeah, I’ve been quite lucky over the past few years.

You already mentioned the political aspect of your work, it’s about community, bringing people together to dance and share something beautiful. Beyond that, what does the perfect event outcome look like for you?

Bringing people together has always felt important to me, but I’ve always believed we could do more as dancers. The entire history of dance has been about movement as a way to gather, to create a shared experience.

Even before language existed, we danced. And the more I’ve read about the history of dance and raves, the more I’ve seen how inherently political they have always been. Even when the party itself isn’t explicitly political, the simple act of gathering is political. Especially if you’re Black, queer, FLINTA. Just existing and taking up space together becomes a statement.

That’s why I’ve always felt a responsibility to do more. I love the feeling of unity that comes from dancing with others, but I kept asking myself: Why should that connection end when we leave the space? Life comes rushing back in, with all its weight. We are lucky to have spaces where we can let go, but so many people never get that privilege, never find a place where they can feel free.

That realization shaped how I approach throwing parties: they had to be political, non-profit, and extend beyond the dance floor. Community, for me, is about more than just being in the same room or liking the same music. It’s about shared empathy.

That’s why we always donate to causes, usually one local and one international, focused on refugees, war-affected areas, medical relief efforts, or centers supporting unhoused people and FLINTA folks experiencing violence. Creating that link between the party and the outside world deepens the sense of purpose. People can feel that no one is here to profit; we’re all contributing to something bigger.That, to me, is what strengthens community. 

So the perfect outcome isn’t about how much money we raise. When the world feels bleak and overwhelming, I want people to focus on the micro: what good can you do between you and another person, you and the space, you and the city? If guests leave feeling that – more connected, more empathetic – that’s the ripple effect we want. I always say: come as strangers, leave as friends. If someone discovers a cause, volunteers, spreads the word, or simply leaves with a lighter heart, we’ve done our job. Even pushing the darkness away by an inch is a win.

When you heard about the cultural cuts and the government change with conservatives now ruling in Berlin, did you notice a change in the cultural landscape over the past three years? And what’s your forecast — what are your worries or hopes for what’s coming next?

Yeah, it’s been dramatic. Right now, it’s mostly the smaller crews and independent people who speak up against injustice that face consequences. People are being punished just for being sane. Palestine should be free, and children shouldn’t be killed, a radical idea for some, apparently. It’s depressing.

I see so many people with incredible ideas, but they’re limited by cuts to funding. And it’s not just Germany, Europe is feeling this across the board. 

The first Wild Combination happened because of budget cuts. We did the first edition at Oyoun, which had to close after losing funding. Oyoun, a BIPOC community space in Neukölln, lost funding after hosting the Jewish Voice for Peace for a vigil for the victims that passed away on both sides, deemed “anti-Semitic” by the Minister of Culture at that time. It’s a strange timeline, telling an organization like Jewish Voice for Peace they’re anti-Semitic, but that’s what happened. Staff lost jobs, visa holders had to leave.

When I found out the space would have to close, I reached out. My idea was to host multiple collectives over weekends, giving each a chance to throw an event. Profits would go to charity and to the outgoing Oyoun staff. Every invited collective also brought in another, creating a network of aligned crews operating across the city. So many people agreed to contribute their time freely, and we ended up raising €3,000, split between Oyoun, Doctors Without Borders, and the Berlin Legal Fund to support people arrested or brutalized in demonstrations.

Personally, funding cuts haven’t affected me because everything I do is DIY: I put in my own time, my own money, and rely on friends’ support. I don’t need grants, though I understand their importance for others. For me, staying independent works best.

At the same time, I’m inspired by people in Berlin who are organizing fundraisers, projects, and events on their own. That’s what real community looks like: Self-reliant, collaborative, and driven by care rather than profit.

Contrast that with the broader scene, which often talks in business terms – growth, metrics, scaling – when all we’re really trying to do is get people moving together. Many festivals, in trying to survive COVID, ended up selling to big corporations like KKR. Their intentions weren’t bad, they just wanted to keep things alive, but now ownership has shifted, and profits from dancing can end up funding corporate interests, or even war efforts. That’s why the smaller, more independent approach is so important.

Post-COVID, I expected a wave of intimate gatherings, but instead, everyone went bigger. Still, I think there’s a way to do better. With Wild Combination, I want to bring multiple crews together under the same ethos, not competing, but supporting each other. Initially, I envisioned a website where local promoters sell tickets together, and part of the profits go to community support. If someone falls financially, the community helps. If someone is injured, the community helps. The ultimate goal is to own our own space, run as a co-op, free from government or corporate constraints.

It’s tough now, but people are realizing all we have is each other. The more we embrace that DIY, punk mentality, the stronger we become. That’s basically how I see it.

It’s really inspiring what you do. But I’m wondering, if you avoid grants, how do you support yourself and fund your projects?

By being broke. [laughs] I’ve been fortunate over the past couple of years to ease up a bit, so I can take care of myself to an extent. But basically, everything is self-financed. Luckily, I own most of my equipment: turntables, speakers… so I don’t have to rent anything.

There’s always someone willing to help, volunteer, or contribute. Sometimes I just use a bit of my savings to cover costs and donate whatever’s left. With Endless Groove, for example, for our anniversary party – which is the only one we played ourselves, normally we just host – finances were tight. My friend Edo and I agreed that for that one party, profits wouldn’t be donated; they’d cover accumulated small losses from the past few years, 100 euros here, 200 there, until it balanced out.

Wild Combination is different because so many people are involved. Sadly I can’t pay everyone, but we at least cover meals, drinks, and cab rides. With Endless Groove, we try to pay the artists and cover the venue as best we can. The amounts aren’t huge, but the people we work with understand what we’re trying to do.

Once a year, we do this balancing act so that everything else we raise can go to charity. We’re upfront with our community about it. In Stockholm, for example, we told people we were in the red. The response was amazing. People wanted to help, whether by volunteering at the door, baking something, or contributing a few extra euros.

That’s been incredibly affirming. It shows that people care and want us to continue. Even if we take a small loss here and there, we know we can recover once a year. Everything else, every other party, is self-funded and, as much as possible, non-profit.

And from all the parties you’ve attended and organized around the world, how would you describe Berlin as a city and environment in comparison to other places?

Musically Berlin is in a league of its own. It’s changed a lot over the past ten-plus years and keeps evolving, but there’s something truly special about it. Part of it is extreme, you can party for 72 hours straight and not go home, which is obviously unique and fun.

But what I really love, though, is the scene beyond clubs. I don’t go to clubs much anymore, mainly because many hold problematic values, and I’d rather support friends running non-profit or independent events. Berlin has an incredible number of collectives. More than anywhere else I’ve been, and people are doing things because they care about their crowd and the experience of being together, losing ourselves on the dance floor. That energy is deeply essential.

London is similar in some ways, but it feels much more capitalistic. The pace of change there and the number of venues closing over the last decade are striking. There are still great spots and crews, but Berlin’s density and dedication to independent culture are unmatched.

Berlin also has a punk-rock mentality; not the genre, but the spirit. Gentrification is a reality you can’t fight, but the city has resisted it longer than most. Spaces like this one wouldn’t exist in Amsterdam, Paris, or even London or New York. That makes it special.

I’ve been lucky to live in many places - UAE, Malaysia, the States, Sweden, Berlin – as well as travelling a lot all around the world to party everywhere I could. But Berlin stands out. When you find the right party here, it’s just incomparable. Sure, there’s a lot that’s messy, but the good stuff? It’s exceptional.

Listening to you gives me good feelings about Berlin again, because sometimes I also wonder, is it still cool to be here?

I get that. I ask myself that more often than I probably should, especially with the politics of the place. Every week you hear about someone getting attacked or harassed at a protest, just for being peaceful and calling out injustice. The past couple of years have been intense. People keep saying, “What the fuck is happening here?! I’m going to move.” everyone I know seems to be plotting their exit. I think about it all the time as well. And that’s understandable; any city can take a toll on you, energy-wise, life-wise. 

But there's a point where, like, if we all leave, what's left? Also if we leave, then if another place turns bad, we're going to leave again.

But if we all leave, what’s left? Also if we leave, then if another place turns bad, we're going to leave again?! Moving somewhere else doesn’t solve the problem. Politically, it doesn’t work. People need to get involved in politics. That’s the only way real change happens.

Honestly, protesting matters, but I sometimes wonder how effective it really is. My first protest was at 16, against the Iraq War. Millions of people protested worldwide, and the war still happened. That’s when it hit me… Politicians realized they could do what they wanted, even when people united in huge numbers. That was a breaking point.

I still believe in showing up, being heard, and releasing frustration in a protest, but deep down, I think the most impact comes from hitting where it hurts financially: Boycotts, taking action with your wallet. And mobilizing young people to get into politics and change the system. Voting for the same dinosaurs won’t fix decades of issues, the status quo is only making things worse.

That’s also why I think, the cuts are great, because they are forcing people to be together and think outside the box. We’ve basically built a “fundraiser economy” where collectives, communities, and friends run solidarity events, scrape together resources, and still make meaningful change. Whatever amount is raised, it matters.

So for me, the more we can operate independently from government support, the better — because really, fuck them. Real change comes from people themselves, and that’s what keeps me hopeful.

Was there ever a point where you felt that giving so much of your energy, time, and effort to all of this was too much? A moment where you thought you might need to take a break, given the intensity and responsibility of your role?

I just think it needs to be done. Even back in my backyard in Dubai, when I was starting, it was the right thing to do. There’s just so much out there that needs attention, so much wrong happening.

I’m Sudanese, and my country is in tatters right now and its completely forgotten by the rest of the world. Honestly, if I don’t do this, I feel like I’d go insane. This work is the only kind of therapy I can do that actually has an impact. Not just for my sake, but for others, and for my mental wellbeing too. Without it, everything just feels overwhelming. It’s exhausting.

For the past Wild Combination festival, we had about 30 people involved in various ways: Cinema, poetry, DJs, live music, listening sessions. It’s a lot. After that I can’t wait for a week without emails, without constant human interaction, just to recharge.

But at the same time, seeing all these people who care and want to be part of it, it’s incredibly affirming! We’re all aligned in the same energy and pace. In a world that can so easily make you jaded, it’s a source of hope, a reminder that there are people who care and are willing to act.