In 2012, when I painted the minaret of Jara Mosque in my hometown of Gabés, in the south of Tunisia, I never thought that graffiti would bring so much attention to a city.
2012an, Jara mezkitako minaretea margotu nuenean nire Gabés herrian, Tunisia hegoaldean, ez nuen inolaz ere uste graffitiak horren arreta handia eman ahal zionik hiri bati.
At the beginning, I was just looking for a wall in my hometown, and it happened that the minaret was built in '94. And for 18 years, those 57 meters of concrete stayed grey. When I met the imam for the first time, and I told him what I wanted to do, he was like, "Thank God you finally came," and he told me that for years he was waiting for somebody to do something on it. The most amazing thing about this imam is that he didn't ask me anything -- neither a sketch, or what I was going to write.
Hasieran, herriko pareta bat bilatzen ari nintzen besterik gabe eta kontua da minaretea 1994an eraiki zela. 18 urtez 57 metroko hormigoi zati hori grisa izan zen. Imama lehen aldiz ezagutu nuenean eta nire asmoa azaldu nionean, bere erreakzioa hau izan zen: «Eskerrak azkenean etorri zaren» Urteak zeramatzan paretan zerbait egingo zuen norbaiten zain. Imamaren alderik harrigarriena zera zen, ez zidala deus eskatu -- ez zirriborrorik, ez zer idazteko asmoa nuen ere.
In every work that I create, I write messages with my style of calligraffiti -- a mix of calligraphy and graffiti. I use quotes or poetry. For the minaret, I thought that the most relevant message to be put on a mosque should come from the Quran, so I picked this verse: "Oh humankind, we have created you from a male and a female, and made you people and tribe, so you may know each other." It was a universal call for peace, tolerance, and acceptance coming from the side that we don't usually portray in a good way in the media.
Sortzen ditudan lan guztietan, mezuak idazten ditut nire kaligraffiti estiloarekin -- kaligrafia eta graffitiaren arteko nahasketa. Zitak edo poesia erabiltzen ditut. Minaretearen kasuan, mezkita batean jartzeko mezurik egokiena Koranekoa izan behar zuela uste nuen ahapaldi hau hartu nuen beraz: «Oh gizadia, gizon eta emakumeetatik sortu zaitugu, eta jendea eta tribua egin dizkizugu, elkar ezagutu dezazuen». Dei unibertsala zen bakeari, tolerantziari eta onarpenari komunikabideetan normalean modu txarrean irudikatzen den eremutik zetorrena.
I was amazed to see how the local community reacted to the painting, and how it made them proud to see the minaret getting so much attention from international press all around the world. For the imam, it was not just the painting; it was really deeper than that. He hoped that this minaret would become a monument for the city, and attract people to this forgotten place of Tunisia. The universality of the message, the political context of Tunisia at this time, and the fact that I was writing Quran in a graffiti way were not insignificant. It reunited the community.
Harrituta gelditu nintzen komunitatearen erreakzioa ikustean, eta nola sentitzen ziren harro minaretea jasotzen ari zen atentzioaz munduko prentsan. Imamaren ustez, ez zen soilik margolana; hori baino askoz sakonagoa zen. Minaretea hiriko monumentu bihurtuko zelako itxaropena zeukan, eta jendea erakarriko zuelakoa Tunisiako toki ahaztu hartara. Mezuaren unibertsaltasuna, garaiko Tunisiako testuinguru politikoa, eta Korana graffiti moduan idatzi izana ez ziren gauza hutsalak. Komunitatea berriro elkartu zuten.
Bringing people, future generations, together through Arabic calligraphy is what I do. Writing messages is the essence of my artwork. What is funny, actually, is that even Arabic-speaking people really need to focus a lot to decipher what I'm writing. You don't need to know the meaning to feel the piece. I think that Arabic script touches your soul before it reaches your eyes. There is a beauty in it that you don't need to translate. Arabic script speaks to anyone, I believe; to you, to you, to you, to anybody, and then when you get the meaning, you feel connected to it. I always make sure to write messages that are relevant to the place where I'm painting, but messages that have a universal dimension, so anybody around the world can connect to it.
Jendea, etorkizuneko belaunaldiak, batu kaligrafia arabiarraren bidez; hori da egiten dudana. Mezuak idaztea da nire artearen funtsa. Barregarria dena, berez, zera da, arabiar hiztunak ere asko kontzentratu behar direla idazten dudana deszifratzeko. Ez duzu esanahia jakin behar pieza sentitzeko. Uste dut idazkera arabiarrak arima ukitzen duela begietara iritsi aurretik. Itzuli behar ez den edertasuna dauka. Idazkera arabiarra edonori mintzatzen zaiolakoan nago; zuri, zuri, zuri, edonori, eta esanahia harrapatzen duzuenan, horri konektatuta sentitzen zara. Beti ziurtatzen dut idazten ditudan mezuak margotzen ari naizen tokiarentzat egokiak direla, baita dimentsio unibertsala daukaten mezuak izatea edonor konektatu ahal izateko.
I was born and raised in France, in Paris, and I started learning how to write and read Arabic when I was 18. Today I only write messages in Arabic. One of the reasons this is so important to me, is because of all the reaction that I've experienced all around the world.
Frantzian, Parisen jaio eta hazi nintzen eta arabieraz idazten eta irakurtzen ikasten hasi nintzen 18 urterekin. Orain arabieraz soilik idazten ditut mezuak. Hori oso garrantzitsua da niretzat, eta, arrazoietako bat munduan zehar bizi izan ditudan erreakzioak dira.
In Rio de Janeiro, I translated this Portuguese poem from Gabriela Tôrres Barbosa, who was giving an homage to the poor people of the favela, and then I painted it on the rooftop. The local community were really intrigued by what I was doing, but as soon as I gave them the meaning of the calligraphy, they thanked me, as they felt connected to the piece.
Rio de Janeiron, poema portugaldar hau itzuli nuen Gabriela Tôrres Barbosak faveletako behartsuen omenez idatzi zuena, eta, gero, zabaltzan margotu nuen. Komunitateak jakinmina zeukan nire lanaz, baina kaligrafiaren esanahia azaldu bezain pronto, eskerrak eman zizkidaten, piezarekin konektatu balute bezala.
In South Africa, in Cape Town, the local community of Philippi offered me the only concrete wall of the slum. It was a school, and I wrote on it a quote from Nelson Mandela, saying, "[in Arabic]," which means, "It seems impossible until it's done." Then this guy came to me and said, "Man, why you don't write in English?" and I replied to him, "I would consider your concern legit if you asked me why I didn't write in Zulu."
Hegoafrikan, Lurmutur Hirian, Philippiko biztanleek auzo pobreko hormigoi pareta bakarra eskaini zidaten. Eskola bat zen, eta paretan idatzi nuen Nelson Mandelaren zita bat, zera zioena, «[arabieraz]», «Ezinezkoa dirudi, egiten den arte». Orduan, gizon bat hurbildu zitzaidan galdtuz «Aizu, zergatik ez duzu ingelesez idatzi?» eta nire erantzuna, «Zure kezka legezkoa irudituko litzaidake zergatik ez dudan zulueraz idatzi galdetuko bazenit».
In Paris, once, there was this event, and someone gave his wall to be painted. And when he saw I was painting in Arabic, he got so mad -- actually, hysterical -- and he asked for the wall to be erased. I was mad and disappointed. But a week later, the organizer of the event asked me to come back, and he told me that there was a wall right in front of this guy's house. So, this guy -- (Laughter) like, was forced to see it every day. At the beginning, I was going to write, "[In Arabic]," which means, "In your face," but -- (Laughter) I decided to be smarter and I wrote, "[In Arabic]," which means, "Open your heart."
Parisen, behin, ekitaldi batean, pareta bat utzi zidan norbaitek margotzeko. Eta arabieraz margotzen ari nintzela ikusi zuenean, erotu egin zen -- histeriko jarri zen -- eta pareta garbitzeko eskatu zidan. Oso haserre eta etsita nengoen. Baina aste bat geroago, ekitaldiaren antolatzaileak bueltatzeko eskatu zidan, eta tipoaren etxearen parean beste pareta bat zegoela esan zidan. Hortaz, tipoa -- (Barreak) egunero ikustera behartuta zegoen. Hasieran, «[arabieraz]» idaztekotan egon nintzen; «Hire muturrean», baina -- (Barreak) Azkarragoa izatea erabaki nuen eta «[arabieraz]» idatzi nuen; «Ireki bihotza».
I'm really proud of my culture, and I'm trying to be an ambassador of it through my artwork. And I hope that I can break the stereotypes we all know, with the beauty of Arabic script. Today, I don't write the translation of the message anymore on the wall. I don't want the poetry of the calligraphy to be broken, as it's art and you can appreciate it without knowing the meaning, as you can enjoy any music from other countries. Some people see that as a rejection or a closed door, but for me, it's more an invitation -- to my language, to my culture, and to my art.
Izugarri harro nago nire kulturaz, eta horren enbaxadore izaten saiatzen naiz nire artearen bidez. Eta espero dut guztiok ezagutzen ditugun estereotipoak hausteko gai izatea, idazkera arabiarraren edertasunaz. Gaur egun, ez dut mezuaren itzulpena idazten paretan. Ez dut kaligrafiaren poesia hautsi nahi, artea denez eta esanahia jakin gabe antzeman daitekeenez gero, beste herrialdeetako musikaz gozatu dezakezun heinean. Batzuek errefusatze edo ate itxi bat bezala ikusten dute, baina nire ustez, gonbidapena da -- nire hizkuntzara, nire kulturara eta nire artera.
Thank you.
Eskerrik asko.
(Applause)
(Txaloak)