Spain's Children of Immigrants Break Through as Cultural Referents Despite Systemic Resistance

El Chojin has spent three decades answering the same question about whether he experienced racism as a child. At 48, the rapper of Equatoguinean descent is tired of it. His music has been heard by thousands. The Queen of Spain once recited his verses during a mental health awareness event. He has written novels, appeared on television, won a Guinness record for syllable pronunciation speed. Yet he still finds himself explaining, over and over, that he is not a second-generation immigrant—he is simply Spanish, born in Torrejón de Ardoz, part of this society, not exotic decoration within it.

Spain's children of immigrants have broken through into visible cultural spaces: music, film, gastronomy, literature, fashion. But their presence masks a deeper problem. When El Chojin was in university in the 1990s, he was one of only two students of color in his program. Today, 2.6 million people live in Spain with at least one foreign-born parent, many descended from the wave of arrivals between 1998 and 2008, when the country's immigrant population swelled from 600,000 to over 5 million. Yet three decades after El Chojin and his peers helped spark Spain's hip-hop revolution, the mainstream music scene remains essentially white. Emerging rappers like Delarue and Huda, both with North African and West African heritage, wait for their moment from the margins of an industry that treats urban and Latin sounds as either a white domain or a tourist attraction.

The problem is structural. In a cultural landscape dominated by multinational corporations and algorithms, stepping out of the role of passive consumer grows harder each year. Success flows toward what is familiar, and in Spain, familiarity is white. When asked to write an essay on racism, El Chojin declined. Those who already understand the problem will buy it anyway. Those who hate him will continue to hate him, essay or not. One person convinced at a time does not justify the labor.

Yet some have found pathways. Miguel Ángel Méndez, 25, arrived in Spain as a child and grew up in a hostel near Puerta del Sol. His parents ran an Ecuadorian food stall in the Mostenses market. He transformed that inheritance into Ayawaskha, a successful restaurant that modernizes Ecuadorian gastronomy and has become a gathering place for rappers, artists, and creators. He tells other children of immigrants that food is their first calling card, their connection to where they come from—and their competitive advantage. There are 150 Ecuadorian restaurants in Madrid alone. He did not stay in folklore. He collaborated with YouTube creators, Amazon Music, Matadero Madrid. He showed others that the kitchen could be a launching pad, not a ceiling.

In the Usera neighborhood, Wukun Xu, 26, opened Bammbao and began transforming the area into what locals now call a Chinatown open to the city. He walks journalists and artists through the streets, sits at tables with neighbors, speaks in the warm accent of Andalusia where he was raised. His generation of Chinese-descended Spaniards learned to enjoy life, not just work. But he worries the next generation will retreat into finance and business, abandoning the creative path that figures like Ouyang Zhu have carved out.

Ouyang Zhu, 25, grew up in Santiago de Compostela as nearly the only Chinese family in the region. She tried acting until she tired of being offered only roles as a prostitute or nail salon worker. She created the podcast Generación Banana—named for children born in Spain to Chinese immigrant parents—and threw herself into activism. On her 25th birthday, sitting in a Vallecas café, she spoke of needing a break, a vacation from being constantly reminded she is different. Yet she also holds a hard-won clarity: the next generation will need referents like her to imagine possibilities beyond what currently exists.

Football offers another pathway. Spain won last year's Euros with two young players of immigrant descent born here: Nico Williams, whose parents are from Ghana, and Lamine Yamal, whose heritage traces to Morocco and Equatorial Guinea. Iñaki Williams, Nico's brother, became Athletic Bilbao's first Black captain and delivered a speech against the far right's rise. But the pressure on these young men is asymmetrical. Writer Najat El Hachmi, who arrived in Barcelona from Morocco as a child, notes that Lamine Yamal carries an added burden—his redemption narrative is built on his biography, not just his talent. The first mistake will be weaponized. Days after Iñaki's captain announcement, media outlets circulated rumors of a car-buying scam. For people of color in Spain, there is no margin for error.

Hiba Abouk, 38, the Tunisian-descended actress who became famous a decade ago through the series El Príncipe, had no role models when she decided to act. Casting directors would read her surname and say they needed someone Spanish who spoke Spanish well. That gatekeeping has loosened slightly. There is more representation now. But the deeper question remains: does representation help you see yourself as human, or does it simply create the illusion that systemic problems have been solved? According to the latest data, 32.4 percent of babies born in Spain in 2023 had foreign-born mothers. Yet a July 2025 poll found that 27.9 percent of Spaniards aged 18 to 24 planned to vote for Vox, the far-right party. Diversity is arriving faster than acceptance.