For years, Libyan-American photographer and creative director Annissa Durar travelled the world in search of beautiful places. Then, somewhere between the rose harvests of Morocco, artisan communities in Tunisia and remote villages in Peru, her approach shifted. Today, she is less interested in destinations than in the people who define them — women preserving centuries-old crafts, families keeping traditions alive and communities whose stories rarely make it beyond their own region. Shooting primarily on 35mm film, Durar spends days, weeks and sometimes months building trust before taking a single photograph.

In this conversation, she reflects on the journey that transformed her work, why human connection always comes before the camera, and how travelling through North Africa helped her reconnect with a part of her own identity she had never truly known.

— Annissa, looking at your work, it feels like you are constantly moving. You have travelled extensively, lived in different places, and documented so many cultures. So, I am curious: where do you feel at home?

— That is a great question because it is something I am still figuring out myself. As I have travelled, I have been lucky enough to find a sense of home in many different places, and I don't take that for granted. Some people spend their whole lives feeling like they don't truly belong anywhere.

If I had to answer, I'd say I feel most at home in North Africa and around the Mediterranean. That is the region that inspires so much of my work, but I am not sure that is the same as where I would call home. That part still feels open, and I think I am okay with that for now.

— What is it about those places? Why do they make you feel at home?

— I have realised, after moving around so much, that what makes a place feel like home is the comfort of everyday life. It is about finding peace in a simple daily routine. And, of course, it is about the people you meet along the way.

There have been places where I never really connected with anyone, but North Africa has been different. I found that sense of ease in everyday life, and the people I met felt like family. There was a real sense of belonging, and that was incredibly special.

As someone who has moved around a lot, that is something I value deeply. I like being somewhere that allows me to settle into a rhythm — just waking up, walking to the beach, getting to know the town, meeting people. Those simple routines matter to me.

That way of living also shapes the way I approach photography. I like spending enough time in a place to become comfortable there and build genuine human connections. That is when a place starts to feel like home, and it is also when I find the most inspiration for my work.

— And what about your family? Your father is Libyan, and your mother is American. How did their story begin?

— My mum was studying for her master's degree in Colorado when she met my dad, who had come to the US from Libya to study in the 1970s. They happened to run into each other at the university's student union, and the rest is history.

My dad had always planned to return to Libya, but he ended up staying in the US. They got married, had my older brother, who is seven years older than me, and then I was born.

We eventually settled in Kansas, where my dad was finishing his studies. My parents built their life there, which is an interesting part of the story because Kansas is a very rural part of the US. At the time, there wasn't much of a Middle Eastern or North African community, and diversity in general was quite limited.

That shaped the way I grew up. My dad is Libyan, but there wasn't much opportunity for me to experience that side of my identity on a daily basis. There simply wasn't a community around us that reflected my family's culture. All of my friends came from completely different backgrounds, so I grew up without a strong connection to that part of myself.

Looking back, I think that is one of the reasons travelling has become so meaningful to me. Even though I have spent a lot of time physically far away from my parents, I have found myself connecting with my family in a different way — by discovering the culture my dad grew up with. I still haven't been to Libya itself, but travelling through North Africa has given me a sense of the traditions, values and everyday life that shaped him before he moved to the US.

Now, even though my parents are still in Kansas and we are often far apart, I feel closer to my family because I understand my roots in a way I never did before. That has been one of the most meaningful parts of travelling for me.

— Was it always obvious that photography was the path you'd take?

— Honestly, no. I never really saw creativity as a career option.

I always felt creative growing up, and as a teenager, I became fascinated by photography, fashion and different forms of creative expression. But I never thought any of that could become a profession. Instead, I studied business because I assumed I'd end up living a more corporate life.

Over time, though, I realised that creativity was a part of myself I couldn't ignore. I felt this constant pull towards art, photography and visual storytelling, and eventually I understood that it wasn't going away. It took me a while to fully embrace it because it was a little scary to imagine building a life around something so uncertain.

But once I made that shift, everything started to make sense. As I became a photographer and began travelling and documenting the world around me, it all felt incredibly natural. It never really felt like work. It felt like the most honest way to express myself.

— And you never studied photography, right?

— Yes, photography was completely self-taught.

At the time, I already knew I wanted to travel, but I felt like something was missing. I wanted a way to document those experiences, so I picked up a camera and started teaching myself. Everything I know came through trial and error.

I mostly shoot on 35mm film, which has its own learning curve. It is a very different process from digital photography, so there was a lot to figure out along the way.

I learned by experimenting, watching videos, taking a few online courses and, above all, spending time behind the camera. It was never something I studied formally. It was really a journey of self-discovery, and photography became part of that process.

— What were the first things you found yourself photographing?

— At first, I was mostly photographing beautiful landscapes and scenery. I still enjoy that, but over time my interests shifted. I have always been drawn to slow travel — taking the time to understand local traditions, discover traditional crafts and experience places in a way that feels authentic.

Eventually, I realised that the kind of photography I connected with most was about documenting those experiences. It became less about the places themselves and more about the people I met along the way and the stories they had to tell.

That is when photography started to feel different. It became a form of storytelling, almost a journalistic approach to documenting communities and preserving their stories. It might be a group of women making pottery in the mountains, or another tradition that is deeply rooted in a particular place. I am always drawn to stories that are specific to a region and reveal something people might not know or expect.

— I have noticed a photo of a woman from Peru — could you tell me her story?

— That trip to Peru was really special

I visited a remote community high in the mountains where people still make all of their clothing entirely by hand. They use alpaca wool, spin it into thread, and dye it with pigments from local plants before weaving it themselves. It is a tradition that is unique to that region.

Getting there wasn't easy. It took several different forms of transport, and it is not the kind of place many people would visit by chance because it is so remote. I was introduced to a cooperative of women who spend their days weaving together. They welcomed me into their community and showed me every step of the process — from spinning the wool to boiling plants and herbs to create the natural dyes they use for their textiles.

I'll always remember that day. Sitting with them in the mountains, watching them work, listening to their stories and learning about their everyday lives felt incredibly special. They were so welcoming, and those are the moments that still make me emotional when I think about travelling.

— You have travelled to so many places and experienced so many different cultures. Was there one journey that truly changed or inspired you — one that stayed with you long after you came home?

— I had originally seen photographs of these incredibly vibrant pink Damascus roses and became curious about where they came from. When I looked into it, I realised the region was incredibly remote: about an eight-hour drive from Marrakesh, deep into the mountains.

Through a local contact, I met Hafsa, who owns a rose distillery in the area. What fascinated me was her mission. She reinvests the business back into the community, supporting local women and education, so the distillery has become much more than a business — it is part of the community itself.

I rented a car, drove there on my own and spent a week with her team. Every morning before sunrise, I joined the women as they harvested the roses by hand. Later that same day, the flowers would be sorted and distilled while they were still fresh to produce rose water and other products.

It was one of the most meaningful weeks of my life. I felt genuinely welcomed. Rather than feeling like an outsider documenting someone else's world, I felt like I had become part of a family. Most days, I'd simply spend time at the distillery, talking with the women, learning about their lives and sharing everyday moments together.

Looking back, I feel I was discovering a part of my own identity. Growing up in Kansas, I never really had the opportunity to experience the culture my father came from. Being in Morocco gave me a sense of connection that I'd been searching for without fully realising it.

— Did these travels change your approach to photography?

— Definitely. It changed the direction of my work. It made me want to focus much more on North Africa and on documenting traditions that are deeply rooted in the region. In many ways, I see the work as creating a visual archive: sharing places, crafts and communities that many people, myself included, growing up, rarely had the chance to see or understand.

Also, that taught me the importance of moving slowly. I realised that if you spend enough time somewhere, trust begins to develop naturally. You stop feeling like a visitor, and the relationships become much more genuine.

It also changed my priorities. Before, photography often came first. Now, meeting people comes first. I am much more interested in getting to know someone, spending time together and understanding their lives. Only then, if it feels natural and comfortable, do I bring the camera into the conversation.

I think that shift has changed my photographs as much as it has changed me.

Since then, that is how I have approached every project. Last summer, for example, I spent almost two months in Tunisia documenting women artisans working with pottery. I wanted to stay long enough to really understand their lives and their craft before photographing them.

— I was actually just about to ask you about your trip to the mountains of Sejnane. You met some incredible women there. Did you get to learn their stories?

— I met Sabiha, an incredibly talented potter whose family has been practising this craft for generations. We arrived just as she was firing her work. Watching her pull the pottery from the fire while it was still glowing hot was unforgettable. She then added straw to create the distinctive dark markings before decorating each piece by hand with painted motifs.

Later that day, we visited another artisan — the granddaughter of one of Tunisia's most celebrated potters, who has continued her grandmother's legacy. Although they share the same traditional techniques, every artisan has developed her own visual language and style, which I found fascinating.

What struck me most was how much work goes into every single piece. The process begins long before the pottery is shaped by hand. The clay is collected from the surrounding landscape, then prepared, formed, fired and finally painted. It is an incredibly time-intensive craft.

I'd love to return because I still haven't documented the very beginning of that process — how the clay is gathered from the earth. I feel like that is the missing chapter that would complete the story.

— What are you trying to say with your photos?

— I think what I want people to understand is that every place has stories that go far beyond what we usually see.

I am drawn to the people who keep traditions alive — whether it is women making pottery, harvesting roses in the Valley of Roses, or carrying on practices that have been passed down through generations. Those are the stories I want to tell.

I am especially inspired by women who are making a difference within their communities and preserving cultural traditions through their everyday lives. To me, that is where culture really exists — in the people who continue these practices every single day.

I want to approach those stories slowly and with intention. Building a human connection always comes first. I don't like arriving somewhere and immediately picking up my camera. I'd rather spend time talking, listening and getting to know someone before I start photographing them.

I think that is the only way to tell a story honestly.

More than anything, I hope my work encourages people to see places differently. There is so much beauty beyond the usual tourist experience, and I feel incredibly fortunate to be able to witness these traditions firsthand—and even more fortunate to be able to share them with others.

— Looking ahead, is there a story you dream of telling one day?

— My biggest dream right now is to go to Libya, where my family is from.

Growing up in the US, I never felt a strong desire to visit Libya. Even if I'd had the chance back then, I am not sure I would have understood what it meant. But now, at this point in my life, I find myself longing for that connection — to experience a place that has shaped my family for generations.

Unfortunately, because of the political situation, I haven't been able to go. But my dream is to travel there, ideally with my father. He hasn't been back in almost forty years.

My grandmother still lives there. Her name is Anissa (I am actually named after her), and more than anything, I want to spend time with her. I imagine sitting together, talking about her life, cooking together, listening to family stories, and simply being present.

I don't see it as a photography project first. I see it as a family journey. Photography would naturally become part of it because that is how I process the world, but the most important thing would simply be being there.

Most of my family still lives in Libya. My father is the only one who left, so there are relatives I have never met: my grandmother, my aunts, my cousins. I'd love to spend time with them, learn family recipes, hear their stories and experience a part of my own history that has always felt just out of reach.

That is the project I dream about the most. I hope to make it happen later this year or early next year.