If you were setting out to explore a country, who would you want by your side as a guide? Perhaps a local chef — someone who could lead you to the hidden food spots, sharing favourite dishes and desserts along the way. Or maybe a fashion designer — taking you through the best boutiques and vintage shops, making sure you come back with a suitcase full of treasures.

For me, the choice is obvious: I would take a photographer. It feels like they notice the little details most of us would walk straight past, seeing the world from a completely different angle. That is why, when it came to exploring Algeria, I turned to Houssem Boulifa. A self-taught photographer, he goes straight to the heart of things — sensing the people, looking with love and respect, and telling their stories alongside the story of his country. This is Algeria as seen through Houssem’s eyes, with his own journey woven into it.

— I read that you are both an artist and a self-taught photographer. How did photography come into your life?

— I actually remember the very first time I held a camera — I must have been about six. We were on a school trip, it was nothing fancy, and I didn’t even take many photos. But I think that was my first real encounter with photography.

Later, photography found its way back to me almost by accident. I was flipping through old family albums and was struck by how powerful images can be — how they hold emotions, moments, even the presence of someone you love. That feeling stayed with me, and I realised I wanted to create my own traces, my own visual memories.

Since I never studied photography formally, I had to carve out my own path. I read, observed, absorbed everything I could — but mostly, I experimented. I played with light, moods, and the stories a single frame can tell. Over time, that process not only shaped my technical skills but also gave me a language of my own through photography.

— Many of your photographs are taken while travelling, often of people from across the Arab world. How do they usually react when you take their picture?

— Most of the people I photograph are complete strangers — people I cross paths with on the road and will probably never see again. In those moments, the approach is everything. I have to read the situation instantly, sense whether a photo is possible, and never push or intrude.

Out of respect, I often keep a certain distance — sometimes by preserving someone’s anonymity, sometimes by not showing their face directly. That way, I can still capture the atmosphere of the moment while protecting the subject’s intimacy. When that balance is right, the reactions are rarely negative. More often, there is this quiet, unspoken trust that surfaces in the split second of the photograph.

— Does it happen that people refuse to be photographed?

— Of course, I do get refusals. In the beginning, I would sometimes try to take shots discreetly, still keeping the intimacy I mentioned before. But when people noticed, I started approaching them directly — introducing myself, showing them my work, and asking if they felt comfortable. Some agree, others decline. It is never hostile, more like a simple conversation. Every now and then, someone explains that they prefer not to be photographed for personal or religious reasons. In Islam, for instance, images aren't strictly forbidden but not fully encouraged either. I completely respect that.

— I noticed football appears often in your photos, and it seems to play a big role in Algerian culture. Have you personally been involved in football?

— Yes, absolutely. Just like photography, football has always been a real passion of mine — I was playing long before I ever touched a camera. In Algeria, football isn’t just a game; it is something deeply woven into the culture, even the history. During the struggle for independence, the creation of the National Liberation Front team turned football into a form of resistance — a way of expressing identity and pride. So it has always carried a meaning far beyond sport.

Even today, it is the same. Football brings people together — victories, defeats, it doesn’t matter. It creates a language everyone understands, cutting across generations and communities. That is what fascinates me, and it is what I sometimes try to capture through my photographs. Whenever I return to Algeria and walk through the neighbourhood, I always see kids and teenagers out on the streets playing with their friends. And it is the same feeling everywhere: people come together, grab a ball, and the game begins. No coach, no structure — just the pure joy of playing.

What I love most is the spontaneity. In Algeria especially, it feels so free — kids pouring out of their homes, gathering in the street, kicking a ball around. There is a raw beauty in that, and you can feel the culture breathing through those moments.

— I loved that photo of the man selling carpets. Are these kinds of Arabic carpets and interior pieces still a big part of daily life in Algeria?

— Funny thing — those particular shots were actually taken in Istanbul. But yes, in Algeria carpets are still very present, both in daily life and as part of cultural identity. Each region has its own style.

They are never just decoration. Every carpet tells a story, carrying traditions within its patterns. You usually find them in specialised markets, where the craft is still alive and passed down through generations. My grandparents’ home in Algeria is full of them, yet it never feels cluttered — it just feels natural, part of the house, part of the culture. And yes, I have even brought a couple with me to Paris. I love them — the colours, the patterns, the energy they bring into a space.

— In many of your photos taken in Algeria, we see horse riders. Who are they exactly — police or ordinary locals?

— They are neither. The riders you see are part of a very old cultural tradition.

Take fantasia, for example — probably the most iconic. Groups of horsemen, dressed in traditional clothing and riding beautifully decorated horses, charge forward together and fire old powder rifles in unison. It is dramatic, it is brave, and it symbolises unity and heritage. This ritual is still very much alive in Algeria today.

You will also see horsemen at festivals, weddings, national holidays — moments that call for a sense of grandeur and pride. Their presence connects those events directly back to history and tradition.

Of course, it isn't only in Algeria. Across the MENA region, horses hold a special, almost sacred place. Horsemanship is seen as an art in itself, and even in Islam, riding is considered a recommended practice. So is something cultural and spiritual.

That said, it also depends a lot on the family. In some families, the tradition of riding is passed down from father to son. In others, it is more casual — something you do for fun rather than as a serious practice. In my own family it wasn’t a big thing, though at one point we did have a horse. But in Algeria, owning a horse doesn’t carry the same weight as it might in France, for example — it doesn’t mean you are enormously wealthy. It feels much more ordinary. The one we had was simply for enjoyment.

— One of your photos depicts the act of prayer. Was it difficult for you to photograph such a sacred moment?

— Being in a mosque means stepping into a sacred space that belongs to everyone there. Each person is present for the same reason, with the same intention, and that creates a natural sense of trust. It is this atmosphere of mutual respect that makes photographing such moments possible without feeling intrusive.

Prayer is one of the subjects I love to capture most, because of its purity. These are quiet, suspended moments — deeply personal, yet shared at the same time. They carry a sense of universal spirituality that I really connect with. When someone is praying, I don’t ask for permission in that moment because they are fully concentrated, and the last thing I want is to disturb them. Instead, I rely on that quiet relationship of trust that exists in the space, and I take the photograph with respect.

The image you mention was taken in Algeria, at the Grand Mosque in Algiers. I think it is the second largest mosque in Africa, opened only about five years ago, and it carries a huge symbolic presence.

— Do you have a favourite photo so far — one that means the most to you?

— My favourite photograph tends to change with time, but recently there is one that has taken on a special meaning for me. I titled it The Flight of Memories.

I took this shot in Algiers, on one of the city’s main squares. It shows two children, modestly dressed in the middle of winter, completely caught up in chasing birds, unaware of anything else around them. At that moment, a flock of birds takes off in front of them, and in the background you can see the Martyrs’ Monument — a huge reminder of the sacrifices made for Algeria’s independence.

What I love most about the image is the contrast: the innocence and playfulness of childhood in the foreground, and behind them this solemn monument to history and memory. For me, the photo carries both hope and humanity, while staying deeply connected to Algerian identity.

— Finally, tell me: what is Algeria to you today? How does modern Algeria look and feel in your eyes?

— For me, Algeria today feels like a country full of promise. There is so much culture, so much richness, and I think people are really committed to keeping that alive. Of course, like any country that is still developing, there are struggles and things that could be better — but that is all part of its story, part of what makes it what it is now.

My family is originally from the desert, right at the edge of the Sahara, so I feel a strong bond with that part of the country. When I am there, I love wandering through the souks, sitting in cafés, or just hanging out by the football fields. Those are the places where life really happens — where you can watch, listen, talk to people. And for me, those little everyday moments are priceless… and they are often the ones I end up wanting to capture with my camera.