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RAF RAF AKOUDA EL KEF Jerissa
PORT EL KANTAOUI MENZEL CHAKER
KEBILI CHOTT EL JERID ONK EL JMEL DOUZ ZAAFRANE KSAR HADADA
KERKENNAH TEBOULBOU GABES TEMOULA GUELALA 9 AVRIL TATAOUINE
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اس إِنَّا َخلَ ْق َناكُم ِّمن َذكَ ٍر َوأُنث َٰى ُ َيا أَ ُّي َها ال َّن .َو َج َعلْ َناك ُْم شُ ُعو ًبا َو َق َبائِ َل لِ َت َعا َرفُوا
O mankind, we have created you from male and female, and have made you into people and tribes so that you may know each other. (Quran 49:13) I initially painted the whole facade in blue. I’d been pressured by some people in Tunisia to use this color. After completing the whole wall, I wasn’t feeling it. And everyone was criticizing it. The color didn’t work at all. It was not my initial plan. I repainted the whole facade with a cream color. It took literally two weeks to know exactly where I wanted to go with the piece. This wall was a real challenge and I’ve never faced such difficulties when creating a piece. I don’t know why; maybe it was the fact that it was in my family’s hometown, maybe because my family was watching, maybe because of the political context.
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The flow of movement from my core to my hand and fingers is all part of my creative process.
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My artistic style is in part born from the imaginative compositions I construct in my mind, and in part from my intuitive creative process. Gestures are an important method for me to bring what is in my mind onto a wall. The flow of movement from my core to my hand and fingers is all part of my creative process. This is fundamental to allowing the imagination to unfold in reality; my body must be in harmony with my mind.
I create without detailed sketches or pre-planned measurements. Spontaneity is inherent to graffiti culture, and I am indeed trying to be spontaneous, in my movements and my creative visions. The process begins by choosing a phrase, from a poem or a famous dictum, and everything following this unfolds directly onto the wall.
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G uelala
A U THE NTIC C L AY
Will my artistic style be perpetuating the dominance of Arab culture over the culture of my hosts?
It is through Chedli Bousetta that I meet the locals of Guelala1, a village known for the secular savoir faire of its potters. Chedli and I exchange a few words on the boat that connects the port of El Jorf to the island of Jerba, and before long I am being questioned about the motivations of my journey. I explain that the goal of my trip to this island is to meet the Jewish community. He looks away and starts talking in a language that is completely foreign to me. When he sees my eyes widen he smiles. He was speaking Amazigh2, like the villagers in his Berber3 community. I decide to extend my stay on the island to get to know this community that has been largely ignored.
As soon as our feet hit the ground, we go in search of the wall that will carry my art. We scan the roads and inlets of the village. Our path ends in the main square of Guelala. I sit on the terrace of a cafe and contemplate this area, which becomes livelier as night falls. My eyes sweep the square, now swarming with people, and it becomes clear to me that I want all of these people to see my work. This is where I should paint. For a moment I lose Chedli, but when I find him again he is sitting with some elderly men. Habib, the mayor of Guelala, is among them. Chedli asks me to join.
1. Guelala is a Berber village on the island of Jerba. 2. The Amazigh languages, also known as Berber languages, are a group of closely related languages that belong to the Afro-Asiatic language phylum. Berber communities across the Magreb region of northern Africa speak Amazigh.
I approach with salutations indicative of the respect these men of an older generation deserve. A busboy brings us coffee and we start talking. I admit my shortcomings regarding my knowledge of Berber history. They say I must educate myself on this culture. Sadly, I realize that Tunisia is no exception to the rule — the unity of a state comes at the expense of minorities and their cultures. We have a passionate conversation in which I relate to some of what is being said while feeling resentment toward other notions. Our debate arouses the curiosity of fellow diners, who are quick to join the discussion. Young men from the city explain to me that their battle is in reclaiming the culture that has been taken away from them.
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3. Berbers are early inhabitants who predate Arab settlement in parts of northern Africa west of the Nile Valley, in an area known as the Maghreb. The name Berber is a term given to them by outsiders. They refer to themselves as a variation of Imazighen in plural, and Amazigh in singular. These days, Berber communities live scattered mainly throughout Morocco and Algeria, with smaller populations in Tunisia, Libya, and Egypt, and only small numbers in the northern sections of Mauritania, Mali, and Niger. These communities are inclined to live in mountain and desert regions. Berbers are not a single, uniform ethnicity. Over time, Berber tribes have spread out and intermingled with various ethnic groups and cultures. Berber languages and heritage, however, unify them.
Sitting among “Taghouri Dassah” — an insider term meaning “authentic clay” which they use to recognize and distinguish themselves from Arabs — I am asked about the legitimacy of my project. I wonder, will my artistic style be perpetuating the dominance of Arab culture over the culture of my hosts? I openly ask the question, to which they say no. With that in mind, I realize I cannot work without first learning more from them. My calligraphy has to call for reconciliation between the two cultures. The tool will be Arabic but the message must be Berber. “Taghouri Dassah” will be the calligraphic expression. As I look toward the cafe I had sat at earlier, I ask myself if the half-sphere of its dome would best corroborate the message of unity and reconciliation that I want to communicate. I ask Habib if it is possible to paint there. He tells me the municipality owns the building and he doesn’t think it will be a problem.
The physical challenge would not be the scale. I had never painted on a curved surface and would have to adapt my approach. I spend three full days on that roof. This was my modest contribution, the exhumation of a culture buried and forgotten. The people of the city encourage me to meet the other minority communities, whether Berber Tataouine or the Jewish community on the island of Jerba. The next day, I find myself at the synagogue of Ghriba, a place of pilgrimage. Unfortunately, the head of the synagogue doesn’t have much time for me. The landlord is brief, but warm and friendly. He tells me that for the population of Jerba, Jewish or Muslim, coexistence is not the conversation, but rather the charm of the island. When we leave, they congratulate me on my work on the minaret of the Jara Mosque in Gabes and offer positive prayers for the rest of my journey.
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Taghouri Dassah (authentic clay).
.تاغوري دسح
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The importance of the task ahead lies heavy on my mind, and I have trouble hiding my anxiety. However, I know with each step forward I leave behind a stamp, an imprint of my journey.
I painted this wall in the heart of Douz in front of a crowded cafe at night. A policeman brought me a sandwich for dinner.
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This little kid, Mehdi, visited me every day while I was painting. Together with his friends, he would wait for the boat to arrive, hop in, and then just as the boat was leaving the port he would jump out, only to repeat it with the next boat, like a game.
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When you see the water, remember the source.
.فتذكر الكوثر
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This house and the canyon could be seen from an army checkpoint. They were watching me the whole day. When they came to me at sunset, they told me they hadn’t seen anyone here since 2011. They asked me to be careful and said it would be better to leave before nightfall. I couldn’t leave an unfinished piece, and I left in deep darkness.
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80 When it comes to Onk El Jmel, where Star Wars was filmed, the tour guides feed into the popular idea that this place has been revived by a rise in tourism. I wanted to see for myself what it was really like. After a long ride, I finally cast my eyes on the childhood village of the star warrior himself. Of Hollywood decor, all that remains is a couple of abandoned huts devoured by sand. Standing here, I find myself in the heart of a deserted tourist trap. The argument is fallacious but sellable. Even the tour guides agree. I find it offensive that we limit this region’s cultural heritage to a science fiction film. Have we casually neglected our heritage in favor of an American blockbuster? Circumstances often dictate that politics override artistic integrity. Here is one such example. While it is strictly illegal to paint on site, I plan to come back at night. I must improvise. Working as a herald for Tunisian culture, I hope to reappropriate certain regions to give back to the people.
I WILL NE VE R BE Y OUR SON لن أكون ابنك أبدا
The site fascinates me. Music from the film resonates in my mind. The immense desert appears endless behind the village; I am inspired and silenced. My childhood, pop culture bubble is suddenly burst by the warm greetings of Selem Bel Eid, local and land manager for the site. “Welcome, welcome,” he says to me. He offers me some water and shares anecdotes about the site. I tell him my concerns about the future of Tunisian heritage. I finish by asking if he would have any objections to me painting on site. “Of course not, you can do what you like,” he replies. I presume he must have misunderstood me. I ask again and get the same answer. Cans in hand, I start painting right away, worried he might change his mind.
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Just as I finish the piece a tour group approaches. I expect reproach, however, I receive thoughtful consideration and encouragement. Black calligraphy on sand-colored walls. The contrast highlights the dichotomy between a burgeoning cultural heritage and the paucity of resources deployed for its preservation. “I will never be your son,” states my calligraphy, in response to Darth Vader’s revelation, “I am your father.” The experience here has helped shift my opinion. Originally, I had scorned the idea that this site was considered part of Tunisian cultural heritage. But I soon realize it serves as a financial vehicle that helps many families stay afloat. With the right initiatives in place to protect and promote this area, and the resources to back them, the site could prove to be an ingenious way to bring visitors to Tunisia.
I find it offensive that we limit this region’s cultural heritage to a science fiction film.
O nk el J mel STAR WARS
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I will never be your son.
.لن أكون ابنك أبدا
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“The desert is in his blood, he is attached to it as you are attached to your mum,” he said. The Bedouin verse “O Desert, o my mum” reflects this feeling.
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Temoula T h e Land of My A nce st or s .متولة أرض الجد
My desire to embark on this journey began last year after I finished the minaret of Jara Mosque in Gabes. I thought it would be a great opportunity to rediscover my heritage, meet new people, exchange ideas, feast on culture, and share the outcome with as many people as possible. Every step of the way, I couldn’t help but have feelings of doubt or ambivalence as to what I had just learned about myself. I realized I was still ignorant of much of my own history. It was time to return to my roots, to Gabes, and more precisely to Temoula, where most of my family still lives. I hadn’t been to Temoula for many years.
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Every step of the way, I couldn’t help but have feelings of doubt or ambivalence as to what I had just learned about myself.
Of my paternal grandfather, I have only a few memories of summers when we visited the El Sekiffa palm grove. I remember him as an old man, tired from sickness and lying on a mattress in a room. My brothers and I were only allowed to go in quietly and give him a kiss. Once memories fade, it becomes difficult to fill those voids. I arrive to find that El Sekiffa has become a stranger to me, one that I no longer recognize.
When my grandfather passed away, my grandmother moved in with my uncles, leaving their shack abandoned. She has since passed away. Four uncles and one aunt are still alive on my paternal side. I ask my father to reach out to them so I can meet them at my grandparents’ home. There, we find dishes and some tools on which time has left traces of its passage. I watch my uncles and aunt move in quiet through a room full of memories. My aunt breaks the silence with a shaken voice. She says she hasn’t been here since my grandfather’s passing. A long time has gone by; however, the recollections they share paint a vivid picture, as if it were only yesterday. One of my uncles shows me a palm tree not far away: “Your father was born right there.” Their faces reveal their overwhelming emotion. They speak of the impact the Second World War and the German and Italian occupations had on our family. My uncle goes on to talk of the rainstorm that destroyed their first house, which was made of clay. They tell me of the carefree life they enjoyed here and how no price can be placed on this piece of land.
My cousins join us as the whole family gathers in front of my grandparents’ house. I ask them if they would like to be a part of the artwork I paint on the home of our grandparents. In homage to the members of my family, and particularly to my grandparents, I paint a large calligraphy that speaks of our shared history. Temoula, along with the rest of Tunisia, is the land of my ancestors.
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Some of my cousins were telling me that a lot of poems have been written by members of my family in homage to our land. I used the first two verses of one of them on my grandparents’ house. “Temoula, land of my Ancestors. There is no one like you.”
Temoula, land of my Ancestors.
.متولة أرض الجد
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Temoula, land of my Ancestors. There is no one like you.
. ما يف مثلك أحد, أرض الجد.متولة
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