Hiba Baddou grew up in Rabat in an environment where art and a sense of the wider world were ever-present. Her father is an architect and artist, her mother dreamed of becoming a dancer, and many members of her extended family were diplomats. This combination shaped her early on, nurturing both her drive to create and her sensitivity to storytelling, how narratives are formed and who gets to tell them.

She started drawing as a child, almost without thinking about it. At twelve, she picked up a camera, partly because drawing no longer felt like enough, and partly because photography got her out of the bubble, opening up a much wider world. Video followed, then short films, and somewhere along the way, it became clear that cinema was where she wanted to be.

After years of study in Paris — first filmmaking, then academic drawing and art direction — she developed a practice that moves freely between film, photography, painting, and performance.

Paraboles, her project built around the satellite dish as a symbol of collective longing and cultural influence, took her work to a whole new level — winning the Art for Change Prize at the Saatchi Gallery in London and landing at the Dakar Biennale and MACAAL in Marrakech.

In this conversation, we talked about all of that — and also about earlier projects, imaginary friends, the house her father built from recycled materials, and a snowstorm at 3,000 meters that left Hiba and a group of friends stuck for 48 hours with nowhere to go.

— Hiba, you shared a few photos from your childhood on your Instagram, so I wanted to ask: what kind of kid were you?

— I was very extroverted. At least because I grew up with 48 cousins.

My half-brothers, to whom I am very close, left one day with their mom when I was six. I remember feeling really lonely then. That is when I started drawing a lot. Drawing became, for me, the best form of expression. I would draw very simple, almost naïve characters that I called my imaginary friends. They were with me all the time.

It was more like automatic drawing. I wasn’t thinking much — I was just expressing myself and letting my hand do the work.

— And in your red car project, are the drawings connected to the imaginary friends you used to draw as a child? What is the story behind the car?

— Yes, these are the same characters!

The story of the car is quite funny. The Renault 4L is an iconic car in Morocco. After the country gained independence from France, the state gave these cars to people working in the government. They became a symbol of progress and a promise of a better future.

My dad bought one and suggested we collaborate on it, since the car meant a lot to him and represented an important moment in the country’s history. He told me to do whatever I wanted with it.

I thought about how the car carries many people, so I covered it with lots of different faces. My dad redesigned the interior using his old jeans: he cut them up and turned them into seats and pockets, so you can store things anywhere.

— Why do you think you continue to draw these characters?

— Honestly, I have no idea. It is probably the only form of expression I have never tried to analyse or intellectualise.

My work is very conceptual, but this part comes from something much more instinctive. It is like the child in me expressing herself.

I have never really tried to understand it. It just comes naturally.

— Is there anything that connects all of them?

— They often have their hands raised toward the sky.

I remember the first institutional exhibition I did with these characters — it focused a lot on everyday rituals, on the symbolic, on the sacred, and on this idea of always trying to reach upward, to elevate ourselves, to become wiser.

In my paintings, especially when they are more composed and not just line drawings, there is often a contrast. The background can feel chaotic, while in the foreground, people are dancing, celebrating, or in a trance. Their eyes are closed, and there is a strong sense of movement.

During my studies, I came across a concept called “the beauty of disaster.” It explored artworks that depict or even anticipate the end of the world.

One piece that stayed with me is Crossroads by Bruce Conner. He used archival footage of atomic tests at Bikini Atoll in the United States and paired it with calm and beautiful music by Terry Riley & Patrick Gleason. That contrast is both mesmerising and deeply unsettling.

I think that contrast is present in my work as well. The work may look naïve or playful, even childlike, but there is always something darker beneath it — something I try to express through colour, light, and a sense of joy.

— Let’s move to your experimental film Nuit Solaire. You mentioned that in this work, you explore the search for light and human warmth by contrasting a child’s perception with that of an adult. Why is that important to you?

— As a child, I was very afraid of the night. I hated going to bed and would just look forward to waking up in the morning.

Later, as an adult, when I had more control over my life, I tried to avoid the night as much as possible — going to parties, concerts, or just walking around the city for hours.

At the same time, I became aware that the night has a completely different atmosphere. Your mindset shifts; it feels like another world. That made me question how my perception of the night had evolved from childhood to adulthood.

This project became very personal, rooted in my own experience. I asked a friend’s daughter, Agatha, to sing a lullaby. I co-wrote the lyrics with my best friend Omar, who had similar feelings about the night, both as a child and later in life.

I then filmed these surreal, almost acid-like images of people dancing figures moving like strange silhouettes, lost in the night.

I think that reflected how I felt. I am more at peace with the night now, but for a long time, I was trying to escape it as much as I could.

— Thank you for sharing. I understand how uncomfortable it can be to talk about that kind of fear as an adult, so I really appreciate it.

Next, about your film HOME — why did you decide to dedicate it to your home, Dar Mhani?

— My father is an architect and an artist, and he has always been interested in building things from recycled materials. At one point, he was working on an airport project and kept many of the materials that were meant to be discarded. He used them to build our house.

This house is very important to me; it is probably my biggest source of inspiration. It is an unusual, almost surreal place, built in a very creative and unexpected way. Every object in it feels unique, and when I look at things there, I often see multiple meanings. It made me more aware of how we assign meaning to objects and how they shape a space.

There is a car inside the house with a barbecue built into it. On the other side, there is a refrigerator where you can store bottles and other things. Underneath, there is a staircase, so you can actually push the car and move it downstairs.

It feels like someone designed the house in a completely free state. It is a very cool place, and completely unique.

I also have my studio there, and I have created many things with my father. I really value sharing that with him.

The house is also a tribute to my grandmother, whom I never met — that is where its name comes from.

— So, let’s move to your work with the satellite dishes. Could you tell me the full story behind it?

— In 2021, I started writing a book that was initially very introspective. It explored my paradoxical identity: being Moroccan yet having attended a French school, where I learned more about Europe than about my own country and history.

When I left Morocco at 18 to study, I realised how little I actually knew about it, and that made me feel deeply uncomfortable. Then, living in France, I noticed that people often assumed I was French-born Moroccan. They projected certain expectations onto me, about who I was and what I wanted, but those assumptions were often wrong. It left me feeling like I didn’t fully belong anywhere.

I began writing about this, but at some point, I realised the subject was bigger than my own experience. I wanted to ask others questions rather than focus only on myself.

One day, on a plane arriving in Morocco, I saw all the satellite dishes and remembered how, growing up, they represented a window to somewhere else — a dream of another life. For many of us, they suggested that leaving the country was necessary to become who we wanted to be. That realisation felt troubling.

On the plane, I started asking people what they used to watch on TV and how it influenced them. Many shared the same perspective. Later, back in Paris, I spoke with people from different diasporas. They told me they watched television from their home countries — Algeria, Morocco, Tunisia — using satellite dishes pointed in the opposite direction. I found that reversal fascinating.

Back in Morocco, I observed the satellite dishes more closely. They were often aligned in the same direction, almost like a collective gesture — like a form of prayer. That is when I began to see them as something almost sacred.

The book evolved into a broader project based on interviews, analysis, and data. For example, I noticed that people who watched French television were more likely to move to France than those who watched Italian channels. The media clearly had a strong influence.

I also began writing a film script called Paraboles, la sacralisation des images. It follows people wearing satellite dishes on their heads, searching for the images they once saw on screens — a metaphor for alienation, for how we are shaped by narratives imposed on us rather than by our own questions.

The story follows a family on a kind of pilgrimage. But instead of moving from south to north, as migration often does, the film moves from north to south. It begins in Rabat and ends in the Sahara Desert. By the end, the characters reconnect with their roots. They remove the satellite dishes and, for the first time, look up at the sky.

The sky becomes the original screen — the first space of imagination. Before modern screens, it invited us to dream and to think freely. Now, with constant exposure to images, we risk losing that ability.

Although the project reflects the 1990s, it feels even more relevant today, in a world dominated by phones and digital media. We are constantly absorbing images that shape our thoughts, often without questioning them.

That is why I created a fictional entity called the Hertz Republic to connect this experience to other countries beyond Morocco, such as Senegal. It is a global phenomenon tied to histories of colonisation and cultural influence.

Today, I believe it is essential for us to reclaim our own narratives. For too long, our stories have been written by others. We think we know who we are, but often we don’t.

— And I would also love to ask about that intense experience: you were stuck at around 3,000 meters during a snowstorm for 48 hours. How did it happen?

— It started as a trip with friends I met in Marrakesh, where I had been staying for a while. We decided to go to a place called Chalet des Rêves (“Chalet of Dreams”).

Everything was going well at first. But on Sunday morning, we woke up and couldn’t even see the cars anymore — everything was buried under snow. There had been a massive snowstorm overnight.

Our local guide told us not to worry, that we would be able to leave. But it quickly became clear that wasn’t the case. People were saying it hadn’t snowed like that in over ten years.

We tried to go down, but it was extremely dangerous. There was about two meters of snow, and we were at around 3,000 meters altitude. We had to descend about 600 meters just to reach the parking area, and we nearly had several accidents along the way.

At that point, we realised we were stuck possibly for more than 48 hours. Eventually, we found a hotel where we could stay longer. We all had important commitments, and everyone was stressed. But in the end, we had no choice but to wait. It was a humbling experience being forced to accept that you are entirely dependent on nature.

I went for a walk to clear my head, with my camera and a 300 mm lens. From a stressful situation, it shifted into something more contemplative. I started observing details from a distance, and it changed my perspective.

What is interesting is that a year earlier, I had spent two months in a small village in southern Morocco, working on a project about water scarcity. It hadn’t rained there for years, and I was focused on drought and its impact on people.

But this experience showed me the opposite: what happens when there is too much water. It added a new dimension to my work, which is about women, water, and cycles. In a way, it became even more meaningful than what I had initially planned.

Eventually, we managed to get down. When we returned to Marrakesh, things got even stranger: the water system in our apartment burst because of heavy rain. We woke up in the middle of the night with water flooding the space.

It was completely unexpected. One of the driest places suddenly covered in snow and flooding — it felt unreal. It really made the effects of climate change feel very tangible.