When I asked Najla to describe Arab women in a single word, she chose resilience. But after our conversation, another word stayed with me — strength. Not the obvious kind that comes to mind, but a quieter, steadier one. The strength to speak your truth. To stand beside those you love. To keep moving forward, even when the world questions you — whether it is for your work or something as simple as your hairstyle.

Her works are bold yet tender, each carrying its own story. They don’t shout slogans or seek spectacle; instead, they whisper soft, aesthetic truths about what really matters. Together with Najla and her lived stories, we will step into that world now. Enjoy.

— I know you grew up in Cairo. Could you tell me a bit more about your childhood and family?

— I was born and raised in Cairo and went to a French international school. My mother is an architect, so I grew up surrounded by creativity. She often took me to galleries, which I found inspiring, even though at the time I didn’t realise photography would become my path.

When I was about 15, I moved with my mother and brother to Boston for a year. I didn’t enjoy it much and eventually went back to Cairo. After finishing high school, I moved to Paris for a foundation year in applied arts. One of the courses was photography — it was just a weekly class, but it made me realise how much I enjoyed it. Around that time, my mother gave me her old camera, and that is when I really began experimenting. Later, I returned to Cairo, studied applied arts at university, and continued practising photography on the side. Bit by bit, it grew into a true passion.

— Was there a turning point when you realised photography was more than just a hobby?

— I think that moment came when I moved back to Cairo for university. I bought an analogue camera and started taking photos of my friends and people on the streets. I carried it everywhere and realised how much joy it brought me. By late 2019, I decided to take it more seriously — I started thinking about photographing models, reaching out to brands, and shooting small campaigns. That is when it shifted from being just something fun to something I really wanted to do.

— One of the projects you worked on around that time was the series “Sister, Oh Sister.” How did it come to life?

— It really grew out of a collective effort with my female friends. During my university years, I had this amazing support group of women. We would have long, meaningful conversations about life and about being women, and they helped me through a very low point. They encouraged me to pursue photography and made me believe in myself.

I didn’t grow up with sisters — only a younger brother — so experiencing that kind of care from my friends was something new and powerful. The series became my way of giving back to them, to those conversations that shaped me, and to the ways they influenced my beliefs and identity.

Some of the images came to me instantly, almost like visions, while others took more time to take shape.

— Can you tell me more about the image in this series of the woman wearing a wig, resembling a veil, set against the blue background?

— That one came from a very personal place. At the time, I was quite religious, but I was also starting to feel a disconnect from the way I grew up. It was during COVID, so I was spending a lot of time at home, experimenting with my short hair. I remember thinking, what if I cut it into a mohawk? And then right away another thought came: but if I need to pray, how would a mohawk even fit under the veil?

In Islam, every time you pray you are required to cover your hair. That is really all there is to it — you put on the veil before you begin. So when I imagined having a mohawk, it just felt absurd: how would I even cover it properly?

It was such a small thought, almost silly at first, but it reflected a much bigger tension I was experiencing — between my faith, my culture, my identity, and the way I wanted to express myself. That tension turned into a visual idea, and eventually became one of the central images of the series.

— In one of your past interviews, commenting on your series “Sister, Oh Sister”, you said: “I wanted to free myself and my sisters from allowing our gender to be constantly politicised.” Can you expand on that?

— Looking back, I probably wouldn’t phrase it in quite the same way now. I have grown and changed since then. But what I meant was that, for me, it often felt impossible to separate daily life from being a woman. Everything seemed to come with conditions: because you are a woman, you can’t do this, or you must do that. Even the smallest personal choices became political.

A real turning point was when I cut my hair very short. I never imagined it would affect my life so much, but suddenly people treated me differently. Some misgendered me, others made assumptions about my sexuality, and I even faced harassment in public. My family also reacted quite strongly. What I thought was simply a personal style decision ended up carrying cultural, social, and political weight.

So what I was really trying to express is that gender constantly shaped how I was perceived — often in ways I hadn’t chosen or asked for. I realised I couldn’t make personal decisions without facing consequences imposed by society. That is the context of that quote: a frustration with how difficult it is to live outside of gendered expectations.

— In your eyes, who are Arab women today?

— That is a tough question. I think Arab women are incredibly resilient. We carry so many unnecessary struggles, and there is often this expectation that we should always look after others or make room for everyone. When I moved to Berlin, I became more aware of that contrast — in Cairo, life is very collectivist, whereas in Berlin it is much more individualistic. It made me realise how much I, as a woman, instinctively give space to others, care about others sometimes even to an unhealthy degree.

Of course, that is just my own experience, but I truly believe Arab women as a whole embody strength. They have been through so much, and I can’t help but always associate them with resilience.

— You also created another series dedicated to sisterhood, "Ebb & Flow". Can you tell me about the stories behind some of the images, like the key on the bench or the butterfly tattoo?

— That series was shot over several months, maybe even a year. It wasn’t a defined project at the time, more a collection of moments with the people closest to me — my beloved places in Egypt and friends from Cairo, Fayoum, Hurghada, and other places. Later, I realised the images carried a similar emotional tone, so I brought them together as one series.

The details, like the butterfly tattoo or the key, weren’t staged symbols but part of what I was feeling then. At the time, I was waiting for my visa to Berlin, and I saw everything around me through the lens of nostalgia — as if it could be the last time. I began romanticising daily life and wanting to preserve those fragments. For me, the series isn’t so much about each individual image as it is about the collective feeling: a love for my home, my friends, and the details of our shared lives.

— Have you ever created a work that you hesitated to share publicly?

— Definitely. Some works feel very personal or emotional, and I sometimes worry about how people will react. For example, one of my early series for Vice Arabia featured a model who happened to have armpit hair. The project itself wasn’t about that at all, but it quickly became the focus of all the comments. People left hateful reactions — and even now, years later, I still get new ones.

I felt bad mostly for the model, since she was my friend and the attacks were directed at her body. But criticism was part of the process. I don’t think controversy is “good” in itself, but I do believe that sometimes uncomfortable conversations only begin when people are confronted with an image that challenges them. If someone feels so triggered that they lash out publicly, it says more about them than about the work.

— The piece that really caught my attention is “Pray for Me 666 Times.” At first glance it seems simple, but after reading the explanation it felt incredibly layered. How did you develop the concept, and what was the process like?

— It depends on whether I am working on a personal project or a commission, but often ideas come from questions I am already busy with in my mind. For "Pray for Me 666 Times", the visual itself may not look personal at first, but the concept behind it definitely was. Growing up religious, I used prayer rings myself to count, and at one point it even became obsessive.

What I realised, though, was that in mainstream media and photography, Arab women were rarely portrayed in ways that allowed them to be both religious and also romantic, or even sexual. The two identities were always separated. For me, creating that image was about uniting them, and in a way, healing the tension I carried.

A big part of my process is conversations. I often need to talk things through with friends. Sharing ideas allows them to grow, and sometimes just making one image opens the door to the next. In fact, when I started that series, I only had one picture in mind — the woman on the motorcycle. But once I made it, it gave space for other images to follow. So I try not to over-plan. One photograph leads to another, and the series builds itself with time.

— Do you carry a photography bag or props to shoots, in case an idea strikes you on the spot?

— Honestly, not really. I don’t have a fixed creative process. I am still learning how to stay in touch with my creative self. It is very easy to fall into an artist’s block, especially here in Berlin. In Cairo, I had endless inspiration from the streets, the chaos, and the culture that reflected my identity. In Berlin, things are very organised and almost too perfect, which makes it harder to find the same spark.

— Speaking of Cairo and the many inspirations behind it, I have to ask you about your series “Garden of Cairo”. Could you tell me more about its concept?

— That series was actually commissioned by Beyn Collective for an exhibition in Cairo. The theme was strength, specifically in relation to womanhood. At first, I wasn’t sure how to approach it — already living in Berlin, I wondered what my response could be. But eventually, I began reflecting on desire. For me, desire is closely linked to strength. It can be the desire to love, to succeed, to create, to connect, or to move forward. That energy can give you a sense of capability and ambition.

I also wanted the project to bring people together. Strength is never just individual — it comes from community and shared connections. So I launched an open call where people could anonymously share locations in Cairo that held personal significance —places tied to love, intimacy, desire and longing.

People submitted places through Google Maps, and I went out to photograph them. In each site, I placed a bitten apple as a symbol. For me, it was about reclaiming spaces often considered private or even taboo, and turning them into a collective portrait of strength, intimacy, and imagination rooted in Cairo.

Alongside the photographs, we created an online map where all the submitted locations could be viewed. The response was wonderful, but for me, the most powerful part was feeling so connected to strangers. I had no idea who submitted which place or what their story was, yet I was photographing sites that carried deep meaning for them. That sense of connection — seeing overlaps, recognising patterns — was really moving. It showed me how shared emotions and imagination can create a sense of community, even among people who have never met.

— How do you usually know when a photo shoot went well? Do you ever step back and say, “That was a 10 out of 10”?

— Honestly, I am very hard on myself. I rarely feel proud of the work itself — I am more proud of the people who contribute: the friends, the models, the collaborators. I usually finish something and then move straight on without really celebrating it. I know it is not the healthiest approach, and I am trying to get better at that.

— You also created a series reflecting on the commercialisation of Islamic objects. Can you share what you were trying to explore there?

— That project is called Vanities" and is commissioned by Stereo Studio. It wasn’t a criticism of religion at all — it was about how capitalism shapes the way we practise it. In Islam, we are reminded that life is temporary, that material possessions won’t follow us, and that faith isn’t meant to depend on wealth. Even the pilgrimage to Mecca is only obligatory if you can afford it.

Yet today, religious objects are marketed in ways that make faith feel like a commodity — Qurans in different colours, coordinated sets of prayer mats and veils, even prayer rings that turn devotion into a competition of numbers. For me, that reduces spirituality to consumerism and distances us from the essence of faith: modesty, humility, and connection with God.

So the project was about asking a simple question: do we really need all these products, or are they making religion harder to access — turning it into something about appearance and status, rather than sincerity?

— What does Egypt mean to you today — both in the things you feel outsiders often miss, and in what you personally love most about it?

— I think outsiders often miss the humour that defines everyday Egyptian life. Egyptians have an incredible ability to find laughter even in difficult situations. There is a stereotype of Egyptians being lazy or laid back, but in reality, people are very hardworking.

Something that troubles me today is how divided the country has become by social class. Modernisation — gated compounds, luxury developments — often gets praised as progress, but it actually deepens inequality. You now have children growing up in Egypt who don’t even speak Arabic, while others live in very difficult conditions.

On the positive side, what I deeply love about Egypt is its creative community. People there are doing incredible work, and the sense of support is immense. It feels natural and easy — people step in to help, often without asking for anything in return, simply out of love and solidarity. That spirit of community is very powerful, and I cherish it.