Mous Lamrabat is a Moroccan-Belgian photographer whose work has become some of the most recognisable in contemporary photography over the past few years. Portraits where Islamic aesthetics meet pop culture, family memory bleeds into fashion, and Morocco, Belgium, and something entirely invented coexist in a single frame as if they always belonged together.

In 2019, he presented his first solo show — Mousganistan — in Sint-Niklaas, the Belgian city where he grew up. Mousganistan is an imaginary country built from memory, identity, and belonging that somehow feels more real than most places you have actually been to. Since then, this world has only expanded.

This conversation could have begun with his work. But when we spoke, Mous was sitting at his family home in Morocco — and it felt wrong to start anywhere else. So we started with the women who shaped him, and the grandfather who spent his afternoons under a fig tree listening to Spanish radio. We talked about what it means for him “to create for your younger self”, when and how Mousganistan first appeared and whether it is still the same place it was when he first imagined it.

— Mous, I would love to begin by talking about the women in your family. You mention them often in interviews and on Instagram, so I get the sense that they have had a great influence on your life. Let's start with your mom. How would you describe her?

— My mom is my heart. Actually, she is the beating heart of the whole family.

My mom was very strict with us growing up. To be fair, we were little troublemakers, so we usually deserved it. And we loved her dearly then and still do today.

We spent so much time with her, and she was always there for us. And now, as adults, we want nothing more than to make our mom proud.

She is around 72 now, and I am so happy she is still with us.

A few years ago, she had dialysis treatment. In the beginning, it was really tough on all of us. We almost saw it as the beginning of the end — you hear the word “disease,” and your mind immediately goes there. But over time, things changed. Even she never thought she would be able to travel again or come back to her house. And yet, here we are.

Now we see it differently. It is not the end of life — it is just a different way of living. And I want to emphasise the word living. Yes, she has to go through dialysis three or four times a week, and yes, it changes things. But we are grateful to have her here with us.

— What qualities do you think you inherited from your mom?

— One thing I definitely got from my mom is overthinking. That is probably not a positive trait, but it is very much a part of who I am.

But beyond that, it is her way of being in the world: her kindness, her way of navigating through life. Everything she does comes from a good place. She is just... too good for this world. She has a very pure heart.

And I think that is something I have inherited from her: a kind of innocence or maybe trustfulness. I tend to believe people. I always assume the best in them.

Of course, that has come back to bite me a few times. But even then, it was never anything that felt like a major loss. I would rather continue trusting people than become cynical.

— I remember you mentioning those uncomfortable situations in Belgium where people would stare at your mother because she wears a veil. Have you ever asked her how she felt about that?

— No, not really. When I tell my mom that I hate how people stare at her, her response is always the same: "Come on, let's go. It's okay. It's fine." She didn’t give it any attention; she chose not to focus on it.

That is actually something I have also inherited from her, and some of my siblings have it too.

My mom will walk into a place and instinctively try to be as anonymous and unobtrusive as possible. She already stands out because she wears a hijab, and in many places in Belgium, that makes her more visible, whether she wants it or not. So if people look at her, or even say something to her, she will just lower her gaze and keep moving. She doesn't engage with it.

And there is something admirable about that mindset. My mom doesn't get disappointed by people very often because she has already accepted that this is part of the world she lives in. She doesn't hold any resentment toward anyone. In her mind, people may stare, they may judge, and that is just something she has learned to expect.

Because of that, whenever someone is kind to her, she is genuinely surprised and grateful. She doesn't take it for granted. She always expects very little, so every act of kindness feels like a gift.

— I would also love to ask you about your grandmother, whose photo I came across on your Instagram. What was she like? And is there a memory of her that has stayed with you over the years?

— The coincidence is actually pretty remarkable, because I am literally sitting on the edge of my grandmother's well right now, next to the house where I even took the photo. It is crazy how this interview has ended up bringing me back to the exact place where all of this happened.

My grandmother was a fascinating person. She was very strong and tough, but at the same time, incredibly sweet to her grandchildren. To us, she was this protective figure, almost like a statue of strength. She looked after us and made us feel safe.

As I got older, though, I started to see her differently. I realised, wow, this woman was a gangster.

The way my grandmother spoke to my mom, the way she carried herself — it was very much mother-in-law energy. She was the boss. She liked being in charge, and she wasn't afraid to let people know it.

Whenever we came back from Belgium every couple of years, my mom would tell us stories about how difficult it had sometimes been to live with her. She would say things like, "If we wanted to bake something to have with coffee, sometimes we had to ask permission just to use flour." Sometimes they would even hide ingredients.

— Have you ever thought why she was tough?

— As I got older, I began to understand where her toughness came from. Life here was hard. She worked constantly. For instance, she would wake up at four in the morning and walk on foot many kilometres to collect grass for the animals.

That kind of life shapes a person. Life made her hard just because survival demanded it. Their generation wasn't writing emails saying, "I hope this message finds you well." Life was much more direct than that.

I loved her. Looking back now, I understand them so much better than I did when I was younger.

— One of your earliest photos is a portrait of your grandfather. Could you tell me a little about him?

— I think my dad is basically a copy of my grandfather. The older I get, the more I see how much of him lives on in my father.

They had the same view of the world: something was either right or wrong. There wasn't much grey area. And that is probably what I admired most about both of them. They couldn't be anyone other than themselves. If something bothered them, they would say it. If people were gossiping, they would simply walk away. They believed honesty mattered more than being liked.

My grandfather was quite a solitary man by the time I knew him. Looking back now, I think he enjoyed having a little space of his own. He had a horse for many years and later a donkey, and every day he would ride out to a piece of family land where there was a beautiful fig tree. He would lie down underneath it and take a nap. That was his sanctuary.

As children, we never understood any of this. We would say, "Let's go find grandfather — he'll be under the tree waiting for us." Maybe he was. But looking back now, I realise he probably also just wanted a bit of peace and quiet.

We would sit with him for hours while he told us stories. One thing I remember clearly is that he was obsessed with Spanish. We live on the coast, and when he was younger, he worked with Spanish fishermen. He listened to Spanish radio all the time.

None of us understood a word of it. Even today, I don't know whether he actually understood everything he was listening to or whether he simply found comfort in hearing the language.

But when I think of him now, that is the image that comes back to me: my grandfather under that fig tree, the Spanish radio playing in the background, completely at peace.

— Since we have already touched on one of your earliest photographs — the portrait of your grandfather — I would love to go back to that time. You once mentioned that, although you loved photography, you didn't want to study it formally because you wanted to find your own path and develop your own visual language. What were those early years like?

— When I first picked up a camera, I wasn't making art. I was photographing my family. I have a lot of siblings, nieces, and nephews, and because I was too shy to approach strangers on the street, they became my subjects. I spent years documenting everyday moments, trying to be a fly on the wall and preserve memories. Looking back, I am grateful for that because our family life from that period is incredibly well documented.

It was simple photography. There wasn't much technical thinking behind it. But by taking photographs all the time, I learned how the camera worked, how light behaved, and how images came together.

Eventually, I started experimenting with staged photography. I could use my friends and family, try things out, and make mistakes. And I made plenty of them. I remember covering my brother in baking flour and making portraits of him completely covered in white powder. The results weren't great, but I learned a lot.

Looking back, professional photographers would probably be shocked to see my early work. But I have never believed there is a right way to get somewhere. You learn by doing.

I think that is also why I found my own visual language quite early. I wasn't trying to follow a formula. I was simply experimenting and figuring things out for myself.

At the time, though, the work people know me for today was work I barely showed anyone. I was mostly presenting fashion photography because I loved its freedom. To me, fashion photography could be anything as long as fashion was part of the image.

Then one day, a new agent at the agency was reviewing portfolios. She looked through my fashion work and said, "It's not bad, but I've already seen several photographers doing something similar."

I was intimidated, but I mentioned that I had some personal work with me — images I usually didn't show anyone. When I put them on the table, everything changed.

She pushed the fashion photographs aside and said, "This is unique. This is you. This comes from an artist. The other work comes from a photographer." That moment gave me permission to trust my instincts.

Until then, I had always wondered why anyone would care about my personal work. It was full of references to my own background — Moroccan, Islamic, African influences. I assumed it was too personal, too specific.

But when my first exhibition opened in 2019, the response was overwhelming. What I had considered too personal turned out to be exactly what people connected with.

That was the moment I realised that the work I had been hiding was actually the work I was meant to make.

— This was Mousganistan, right?

— Yes.

— Before we talk about it, I would love to ask you about a quote of yours that I came across. You once said that you also create for your younger self. What does that mean?

— The thing is that you are the only person who truly knows what your younger self needed; what kind of guidance was missing, what questions were never answered, what fears were never addressed. No one else can fully understand that because no one else has lived your life from the inside.

And I am mostly talking about guidance.

The funny thing is that even now, at forty, I still feel like I need guidance sometimes. Maybe the fifty-year-old version of me will have answers that I don't have yet. Maybe the sixty-year-old version will understand things that still confuse me today.

I don't have all the answers now. But I do have answers for that incredibly insecure kid I used to be.

The kid who thought he would never amount to much. The kid who genuinely believed he wasn't very smart. In some situations, I was treated as if I wasn't smart enough, while in others I felt too different to fit in. Either way, I grew up carrying those doubts about myself.

What I really needed back then was someone to take me by the hand and say, "You're going to be okay. Everything will work out. You don't need to be so afraid."

— Mousganistan is an imaginary world of yours that transformed into a project. When did this world first appear, and why did you feel the need to create it? And what kind of place is it? And has your understanding of Mousganistan changed over the years, or is it still the same place it was when you first imagined it?

— I have to be honest: it has changed a lot. When I first talked about Mousganistan, it was really about belonging. It sounds cliché, but that is because so many of us struggle with the same question: where do I fit?

At the time, I was still trying to find my voice as a photographer. I was experimenting, opening doors, trying different things without really knowing where they would lead. Then one day, a woman at my agency looked at my personal work and said, "This should be you." That gave me the confidence to take it seriously.

Around the same period, I stepped away from photography for a while. I wasn't proud of the work I was making, and I felt like I needed to reset. I wasn't taking photoы anymore, but I was still building images in my head. Slowly, a different direction started to emerge.

When I returned, I began making work purely for myself. I started sharing those images online, and looking back now, they became the first bricks of what would later become Mousganistan.

The work was built from our stories, our memories, and the things I had once been embarrassed by. Growing up, we often felt different. We brought Moroccan bread to school while everyone else had store-bought sandwiches. The things that made us who we were sometimes felt like things to hide.

But when I shared those stories through photography, something unexpected happened. People from all over the world recognised themselves in them.

That is when everything changed. What I had thought of as an imaginary place stopped feeling imaginary. Mousganistan became a space where people felt seen and understood. A place built from memories, identity, family, migration, belonging. And over time, I realised that the things I once saw as weaknesses were actually the things that connected me to others.

— When I look at a lot of AI-generated images today, I sometimes feel that they share something with your work, but your photos are created entirely by hand and without the use of AI. Do you see that connection?

— Yeah, I think a part of the body of work we have been making was kind of AI before AI existed.

I remember doing the shows in Marseille and London earlier this year, showing the nostalgia series. The work got a lot of attention, and what was interesting was how many people were confused about whether the images were AI-generated. A lot of people don't know my work, which is normal — I don't assume the whole world knows what I do — so people would genuinely ask, "Is this AI?"

And then there were people who knew my work, saying, "No, you're crazy. This is Mous." They became my little lawyers online.

But AI has definitely changed the way I look at my own work. In a strange way, it has made me feel a need to go back to simplicity.

I have never really said this publicly before, but it is true that a lot of people working with AI have my name somewhere in their prompts. And I understand why. In a way, we were already doing something similar in photography. We were putting things together that didn't naturally belong together. We were creating worlds where different references, symbols and stories could exist side by side.

And that is also what AI does, right? You can write something like, "a mob boss who's a cat," or "a baby smoking a cigar," and suddenly it exists. It is an extreme version of the same idea.

So when I look at AI images, I do recognise something familiar. I see a lot of people doing things that remind me of what we were trying to do years ago.

The difference is that, for us, the challenge was always execution. We had so many ideas that we simply couldn't realise because they were too complicated, too expensive, or technically impossible.

Even now, I sometimes think: maybe I could finally make all those images I always wanted to create. Maybe AI would allow me to produce ideas that were impossible before.

But even then, I can't really get over the AI thing. There is still something in me that resists it.