Youssef Sherif grew up in a world where emotions were inherited in silence — where feeling too much was weakness, and expressing it was simply not done. For years, he moved through life emotionally numb, without a vocabulary for what he carried inside. Photography changed that. What began as a private outlet — a way to process anger, vulnerability, and everything that had no words — gradually became something larger: a body of work that speaks for those who haven't yet found their voice.

At the heart of his practice is Egypt — the living Egypt of its youth. A generation that grew up absorbing global influences while remaining deeply rooted in their own culture — redefining identity through fashion, music, and self-expression in ways their parents never could. Hijabi women reshaping modest fashion on their own terms. Young men navigating between inherited expectations and personal freedom. People experimenting with who they are.

And Youssef documents all of this because he knows it is happening now, and now doesn't last.

— Youssef, I feel like you haven’t spoken that much publicly about how you actually came into photography. I’d love to learn more about your background and your family story. Was there anyone in your family connected to a creative field? And when did you first decide to pick up a camera?

— Actually, my father worked in cinematography. And I think he became a bit traumatised by that industry and didn’t really want to encourage me to pursue something similar.

Since I was a kid, I have always had this habit of “freezing frames” in my mind — even before I ever touched a camera. I would experience ordinary moments, like passing by a bridge in a taxi or looking at an interesting building, and immediately start building stories around them in my head.

I remember saving up money as a teenager to buy my first camera. I thought it could become a way for us to connect, because we weren’t very close. But instead, he became very critical of my work and held me to extremely high standards. Back then, it was difficult for me to understand his reactions, and I often felt discouraged by them.

Looking back now, though, I understand where it came from. He had his own complicated experiences within that field, and I think he was just protecting me from pursuing what he saw as an unstable or difficult career path. So even though it hurt me at the time, I now recognise that it came more from fear and concern than from rejection.

Still, I kept playing around with my camera and photographing my friends. And looking back now, I realise I was always creating little themes or storylines in my shoots. It came to me very naturally.

Eventually, though, I sold my camera because I was disappointed with the feedback and began to believe that photography could never realistically be a career path for me at the time. So I kind of forgot about photography for years.

Then, around 2019, I suddenly started missing photography again. I realised how much I genuinely loved it and how strange it felt to no longer have it in my life. Even if it wasn’t going to lead anywhere professionally, the connection to it was still very real for me.

When I decided to return to photography, there still weren’t many people working in fashion photography, and honestly, I wasn’t even particularly interested in fashion at first. I was more interested in using it as a medium for storytelling and emotional expression. So, I started by photographing friends from work, treating it simply as a hobby and a creative outlet.

At that point in my life, I felt emotionally numb, yet at the same time, I had so many unresolved emotions building up inside me. Back then, I didn’t really know how to express those feelings verbally. Photography gradually became a form of release — a way to process anger, vulnerability, and everything else I was carrying internally. I slowly began finding my own voice.

— And your first project was Egyptian Beauty, right?

— Yes. At the time, the modelling industry in Egypt was just starting to develop, but there was still a lot of colourism and whitewashing. People were taught — often by family and society — that darker skin wasn’t attractive. And I completely disagreed with that. Egyptians are incredibly beautiful, and I wanted to portray that honestly.

At first, I had huge ambitions for the project, but realistically, I had no portfolio or professional background to convince people to work with me. I approached a model who was interested, even though all I really had to show were phone photos. She told me I had a good eye, but we both hoped the shoot wouldn’t completely fail.

I also connected through Instagram with Mazen Zaki, fashion stylist and art director. We started brainstorming ideas together. I wanted to create this visual involving Arabic calligraphy on fabric wrapped around the body, but we knew it could easily look tacky if it wasn’t done carefully. So we spent time researching, sketching ideas, and planning everything.

We ended up shooting on my family’s rooftop. When I posted the photos, I honestly didn’t expect much. Because of my upbringing and the criticism I’d received before, I never really thought of myself as “good.” I wasn’t fishing for compliments — I genuinely just wanted to create.

But suddenly the project gained traction. And I remember thinking, “Wait… are you really talking about my photos?”

— And what do your parents think about your work now?

— My dad actually likes it. Our relationship became warmer over time. I am an adult now, and when that happens, your relationship with your parents naturally evolves. You start understanding each other differently, making peace with certain things, and approaching one another with more empathy.

And my mom even framed one of my photos once!

— Now let’s speak about your project, The Brothers. Why did you create it? And what was — and what is — your relationship with your brothers like?

— I remember that one was especially scary for me because it involved opening up about parts of my past.

I wanted to portray my brothers the way I saw them when I was a kid. Because of the age gap between us, there was always a certain distance.

Still, I really wanted to connect with them. And because we shared the same household, I felt like there should have been this automatic closeness between us — because they understood the same family dynamics, the same problems, the same good and bad moments. But that connection never fully happened. Maybe consciously, maybe subconsciously, they kept a distance.

But I ended up feeling more like a spectator in their lives rather than an actual participant.

Growing up, in my eyes, they were the coolest people imaginable. I always looked up to my oldest brother because he was — and still is — an artist. He used to draw and paint, and to me, that was the coolest thing ever.

I’d watch them joke around, go out with friends, pray on Fridays, and live these mysterious adult lives. They had girlfriends, friends, routines — all these things I didn’t fully understand yet.

So when I created that project, I wanted to capture that playful, almost mythical way I saw them growing up — through the eyes of a younger sibling watching from a distance.

— Wow, thank you for sharing. Earlier, you mentioned that you felt emotionally numb. Why do you think that was? Was it because of the environment you grew up in, social expectations, or something else?

— I think this is probably a very common answer — especially when it comes to men. We weren’t really encouraged to show emotions or talk about what we were feeling.

Our parents’ generation wasn’t taught much about emotional awareness either. Concepts like emotional neglect, repression, denial — they didn’t really exist in everyday conversations for them. A lot of it comes from previous generations, too. It is an inherited behaviour.

So I grew up without any emotional vocabulary. I wasn’t aware of what I was feeling or how to process it. Younger generations today at least have access to language around these things. But I didn’t have any growing up.

So I became emotionally numb. Looking back now, I realise it was a defence mechanism. I convinced myself that being detached made me strong — like, “You don’t need anyone, you don’t feel anything, you’re invincible.” I thought that shutting emotions down was toughness.

But eventually I started feeling stuck.

I remember going to therapy for a few sessions. During one of the sessions, the therapist introduced me to the “wheel of emotions.” I printed it out and carried it around with me. I would pull it out of my bag and look at it, trying to figure out, “Okay… what exactly am I feeling right now?”

That moment really hit me. I realised how much I had to unpack and how disconnected I’d been from myself emotionally.

Photography started to become an outlet for me. That is a huge reason why I began creating in the first place. It was never initially about work or career ambitions. I just needed release.

For me, creating images became just as therapeutic as journaling. Putting emotions into photos — even indirectly — helped me process and understand myself in ways I didn’t expect. And the more I created, the more emotionally open I became.

— And now you highlight mental health in your work.

— Once I had released some of what I had been carrying, I became more capable of genuinely listening to and accepting other people’s stories too.

In the beginning, it was about expressing my own emotions and experiences. But it also raised a question for me as an artist: How genuine can I be if I ask other people to share their stories while hiding my own?

If I tell someone, “Let me tell your story,” without being vulnerable myself, then how can I truly understand how difficult that process is? Obviously, I can never completely relate to someone else’s experience, but I can at least understand what it feels like to expose something personal.

So the work started from emotion, but over time, the purpose behind it expanded. My goal became less about myself and more about connection. I know I am not changing the world or anything dramatic like that, but if a photograph reaches even one person who feels alone, unheard, emotionally disconnected, or unable to express themselves, then maybe they will feel seen for a moment. That is what I aim for most.

I want people to look at the work and feel a sense of recognition, like: “Oh… someone else feels this too. I’m not alone.”

I think visual storytelling can communicate so much about mental health, vulnerability, loneliness, healing — all of it. And maybe through that, people can either relate personally or simply become more empathetic and understanding toward others.

— Your work documenting Egyptian youth is incredibly beautiful. So, when and why did you first decide to start doing it?

— I think it started as an observation of how diverse Egypt really is. We are not one singular culture — even neighbours can have completely different mindsets, beliefs, and ways of living.

What fascinated me most was seeing how younger generations, especially Gen Z, began integrating global influences into their identities while still making them feel distinctly Egyptian. Through fashion, music, social media, and self-expression, people started becoming much more open and individualistic.

I noticed it especially through fashion. People became more experimental with clothing, hairstyles, tattoos, and accessories — using style as a way to express identity. Hijabi women started redefining modest fashion in their own way instead of fitting into one expected image.

And I think that is what interested me most: watching young people create their own identities more freely than previous generations did. There is something very beautiful about this cultural shift, and I felt a strong need to document it as it happens.

— And how would you describe your approach to photography?

— I struggled for a long time with questions of identity, both personally and artistically. That is actually one of the reasons I created Baldy, which means “my country” in Arabic. The project came from feeling caught between different worlds and trying to understand where I truly belong.

My background always felt very layered. My parents prioritised education; I spoke English; I had access to certain opportunities, and that automatically placed me in a certain social category. At the same time, I was very aware of the contradictions within my own experience. I never wanted to speak about realities I hadn’t actually lived through or witnessed.

I realised that identity doesn’t have to be simplified into one category. I have experienced privilege, but I have also experienced confusion, pain, and difficult moments. Those things can coexist, and accepting those contradictions helped me understand myself more honestly. That realisation eventually led me to create Baldy.

For the project, I photographed in very different places across Egypt — locations that carried personal memories or emotional significance for me. Through that process, I reached a point where I stopped trying to fit myself into one fixed definition.

Visually, I think people often recognise my work through the intensity of the gaze. I am very drawn to direct eye contact — when the subject looks straight into the camera in a bold way. There is something very powerful about that to me.

And I think it connects deeply to the themes I naturally gravitate toward: overlooked people, individuals who often feel voiceless or unseen. That direct gaze almost becomes a statement of existence — like saying, “I’m here. I survived. I refuse to disappear.”

— And what do you mean by “voiceless people”? Who are they?

— I think, within our society and community, my work naturally gravitates toward people who don’t always feel fully seen or understood. I am interested in individuals whose experiences often feel less visible — for example, people who struggle with expression and identity.

And honestly, I relate to that too. In the past, I often felt like I wanted to connect with people emotionally, but couldn’t. I didn’t really know how to express myself properly. I was shy, emotionally reserved, and uncomfortable with vulnerability.

So I think my work speaks to anyone who feels like they haven’t fully found their voice yet — anyone who feels unheard, disconnected, or unable to articulate what they are feeling.

— Maybe there is a project you are working on now that you’d love to share more about?

— One of the projects I have been working on for the past few months is called Reclaiming the Future. It is set in a post-apocalyptic world inspired by Egyptian heritage. The idea isn’t to preserve tradition exactly as it is, but to rebuild and reshape it.

The project explores the idea that identity should be chosen rather than simply inherited. The world in the series remembers the past, but refuses to be controlled by it. I think that comes from my own belief that, sometimes, we follow traditions or social rules without ever stopping to question them. And the project isn’t trying to tell people what is right or wrong, but rather to encourage people to think differently and reflect on what they truly believe in.

At the same time, it is also about not rejecting your roots. I’m Egyptian, and that identity is important to me, but I also don’t want to feel restricted by expectations or inherited limitations.