Street art with a message of hope and peace

In 2012, when I painted

the minaret of Jara Mosque in my hometown
of Gabes, in the south of Tunisia,

I never thought that a graffiti
would bring so much attention to a city.

At the beginning, I was just looking
for a wall in my hometown,

and it happened that the minaret
was built in '94,

and for 18 years, those 57 meters
of concrete stayed grey.

When I met the imam for the first time,
and I told him what I wanted to do,

he was like, "Thank God you finally came,"

and he told me that for years
he was waiting for somebody

to do something on it.

The most amazing thing about this imam
is that he didn't ask me anything,

neither a sketch
or what I was going to write.

In every work that I create,
I write messages

with my style of calligraphy,

a mix of calligraphy and graffiti.

I use quotes or poetry.

For the minaret, I thought that
the most relevant message

to be put on a mosque
should come from the Quran,

so I picked this verse:

"Oh humankind, we have created you
from the male and the female,

and made you people and tribe
so you may know each other."

It was a universal call for peace,
tolerance, and acceptance

coming from the side that we don't usually
portray in a good way in the media.

I was amazed to see how the local
community reacted to the painting,

and how it made them proud
to see the minaret

getting so much attention

from international press
all around the world.

For the imam, it was not just a painting.
It was really deeper than that.

He hoped that this minaret
would become a monument for the city

and attract people to
this forgotten place of Tunisia.

The universality of the message,

the political context
of Tunisia at this time,

and the fact that I was writing
Quran in a graffiti way

were not insignificant.

It reunited the community.

Bringing people, future generations,
together through Arabic calligraphy

is what I do.

Writing message is
the essence of my artwork.

What is funny actually is that
even Arabic-speaking people

really need to focus a lot
to decipher what I'm writing.

You don't need to know
the meaning to feel the piece.

I think that Arabic script touches
your soul before it reaches your eyes.

There is a beauty in it
that you don't need to translate.

Arabic script speaks to anyone, I believe:

to you, to you, to you, to anybody,

and then when you get the meaning,
you feel connected to it.

I always make sure to write messages

that are relevant the place
where I'm printing,

but messages that have
a universal dimension,

so anybody around the world
can connect to it.

I was born and raised in France, in Paris,

and I started learning how to write
and read Arabic when I was 18.

Today I only write messages in Arabic.

One of the reasons
this is so important to me

is because of all the reaction
I've experienced all around the world.

In Rio de Janeiro, I translated
this Portuguese poem

from Gabriela Tôrres Barbosa,

who was giving an homage
to the poor people of the favela,

and then I printed it on the rooftop.

The local community were really
intrigued by what I was doing,

but as soon as I give them
the meaning of the calligraphy,

they thanked me, as they felt
connected to the piece.

In South Africa, in Cape Town,

the local community of Philippi

offered me the only
concrete wall of the slum.

It was a school, and I wrote on it

a quote from Nelson Mandela

saying, "[in Arabic],"

which means, "It seems
impossible until it's done."

Then this guy came to me and said,
"Man, why you don't write in English?"

and I replied to him, "I would consider
your concern legit if you asked me

why I didn't write in Zulu."

In Paris, once, there was this event,

and someone gave this wall

to be painted,

and when he saw I was painting in Arabic,

he got so mad, actually, hysterically,
and he asked for the wall be erased.

I was mad and disappointed

but a week later, the organizer
of the event asked me to come back

and he told me there was a wall
right in front of this guy's house.

(Laughter)

So this guy was forced
to see it every day.

At the beginning, I was going to write,
"[In Arabic],"

which means, "In your face," but

-- (Laughter) --

I decided to be smarter and I wrote,
"[In Arabic],"

which means, "Open your heart."

I'm really proud of my culture,

and I'm trying to be an ambassador of it

through my artwork,

and I hope that I can break stereotypes

we all know with the beauty
of Arabic script.

Today, I don't write the translation
of the message anymore on the wall.

I don't want the poetry
of the calligraphy to be broken,

as it's art and you can appreciate it
without knowing the meaning,

as you can enjoy any music
from other countries.

Some people see that as a rejection
or a closed door, but for me,

it's more an invitation to my language,
to my culture, and to my art.

Thank you.

(Applause)