In the West, we’re used to seeing the Middle East villified for political intentions, but we must never forget what should be obvious: the people there are just like you and I, humans trying to live their life the best way they can. Photographer Tamara Abdul Hadi aims at challenging these preconceptions made up by the media through her candid images depicting the diversity of the region, its people, its customs, desires, and concerns.
Through documentary photography, Tamara brings us close to the societies in Iraq, Palestine, or Lebanon, tackling issues like history, identity, migration, faith, or hope. “I think everyone does work that speaks to them, and the stories I choose speak to me,” the Iraqi artist tells us in this interview. “In my career so far I have focused on the dispossessed and marginalised, the underside of Orientalist representations, the underground of settler societies, the underworld of war.”
That’s easy to observe in Picture an Arab Man, her latest photobook, where she challenges the stereotypes and misconceptions that the West places on Arab men. “When I started this project in 2009, it was a response to the negative portrayals of Arab men in mainstream media — depicting them as terrorists and oppressors of women. The stereotypes did not resonate with how I saw the men in my family, my friends, or my father. The book attempts to reframe and reimagine this much-maligned demographic through close, intimate portraits,” Tamara explains.
Growing up in the Iraqi diaspora, how did the photography books in your family's home library, like Return to the Marshes, shape your visual imagination of Iraq and influence your path as a photographer?
As a child growing up in the Iraqi diaspora, two photography books sat prominently in our family home and influenced my imagination of Iraq: Return to the Marshes (1977) by Young and Wheeler, and Iraq: The Land and The People (1989) by Nadhim Ramzi. These two volumes introduced me to photography, and to Iraq, at a young age. Leafing through them would transport me to the land of my ancestors.
As a young photographer I had a dream to go to the Marshes and photograph them one day, and I finally did in 2018. Then began my critical reengagement with Return to the Marshes, and made me consider the ways colonial imaginations inflect photographic engagement, with the marshes specifically.
As a young photographer I had a dream to go to the Marshes and photograph them one day, and I finally did in 2018. Then began my critical reengagement with Return to the Marshes, and made me consider the ways colonial imaginations inflect photographic engagement, with the marshes specifically.
As a founding member of the Rawiya photography collective, how did collaborating with other female photographers in the Middle East impact your approach to the craft and the stories you wanted to tell?
Collaboration is always such an integral part of being a creative, and with photography being quite an isolating medium, as in, we spend much of our time alone photographing our projects, Rawiya was an idea to counter this solitude by joining forces and being supportive of each other.
You've conducted photography workshops in several Middle Eastern countries. What have been some of the most transformative moments from engaging with local communities in this way?
My workshops are my way of getting to know a community while offering something I’ve learned — photography and storytelling in this case. Passing on knowledge and hoping it continues being passed on within the community. I’ve personally learned a lot from my workshops and interventions. In 2016, I was in Gaza with my collective Rawiya, giving a workshop to young Palestinian photographers. That was a very transformative moment for me, to be able to get to know these young people and work with them on their projects.
Your barbershop series offers an intimate look at male grooming and self-care rituals in Palestine and Lebanon. What drew you to explore this particular part of the culture?
The People’s Salon (or Salon Al Sha’ab) is a photography series celebrating self-care and hairstyles at barber shops in Lebanon and Palestine. I began this series in 2016 while on in Ramallah. Along the way, my friend introduced me to Tamer Shehadeh, a barber, and then resident of Qalandia camp near the Ramallah-Jerusalem checkpoint. Tamer’s artistry and the pride he took in his work, and the self-care practices that take place within the barbershop walls, were the inspiration for this project.
I continued photographing barbershops in Ramallah, Gaza, and Beirut over the next two years. I watched how regular conversations and gatherings of Palestinian, Lebanese, and Syrian men coming in for their weekly beard trims, face masks, and haircuts nurtured a sense of community.The barbershop I photographed in Gaza, Salon Rimal, was destroyed in 2023 during the ongoing Israeli genocide of Gaza.
I continued photographing barbershops in Ramallah, Gaza, and Beirut over the next two years. I watched how regular conversations and gatherings of Palestinian, Lebanese, and Syrian men coming in for their weekly beard trims, face masks, and haircuts nurtured a sense of community.The barbershop I photographed in Gaza, Salon Rimal, was destroyed in 2023 during the ongoing Israeli genocide of Gaza.
“Documentary photography is definitely not a money-making career, I’ll tell you that. So you have to do it for the love of it, and believing that the story should be told.”
What drives you to focus on stories of underrepresented communities and counter stereotypical narratives?
I’m not sure, it is just what I am interested in. I think everyone does work that speaks to them, and the stories I choose speak to me. They peak my interest and my curiosity — to get to know communities and people. In my career so far I have focused on the dispossessed and marginalised, the underside of Orientalist representations, the underground of settler societies, the underworld of war.
How do you stay true to your artistic vision and values when working on commissioned projects or in challenging environments?
I always approach the projects the same way, whether commissioned or personal. I try to be open, honest, and curious.
Your photobook, Picture an Arab Man, presents an alternative representation of Arab masculinity. What stereotypes or misconceptions were you aiming to challenge with this work, and why was that important to you?
The images in my book represent my own gaze of the Arab man, one that I see as an Arab woman. When I started this project in 2009, it was a response to the negative portrayals of Arab men in mainstream media — depicting them as terrorists and oppressors of women. The stereotypes did not resonate with how I saw the men in my family, my friends, or my father. The book attempts to reframe and reimagine this much-maligned demographic through close, intimate portraits. I chose to depict them as softer, more compassionate individuals. Now, years later, my approach has shifted from being reactive to one of celebration.
There is a sense of intimacy and emotional connection with your subjects. How do you approach building rapport and creating a safe, collaborative space during your shoots?
I always try to be honest and open about my intentions for whatever project I photograph for. I try to put myself in the person’s shoes and ask myself questions like, how would I feel if I was in this person’s place, and what kind of collaborative space would I appreciate being photographed in? I know it is a vulnerable spot to be in front of a camera.
What responsibility do you feel photographers from the region have in shaping new narratives and challenging perceptions about identity and visual histories in the Middle East?
They play a crucial role in documenting history from within, preserving local perspectives that might otherwise be overlooked. In doing so, they contribute to a broader discourse on identity, representation, and the impact of socio-political changes in the Middle East, encouraging audiences to rethink preconceived notions and engage more deeply with the region's realities.
In our current Instagram-saturated world, how do you feel social media is impacting photographic storytelling from the Middle East? What advice would you give to emerging photographers from the region?
The advice I would give would be similar to the answer of the earlier question. That it’s important work and that they should keep pursuing local stories and do the work for a good reason. Not for awards and recognition but for the essence of storytelling. Documentary photography is definitely not a money-making career, I’ll tell you that. So you have to do it for the love of it, and believing that the story should be told.
What's the one image of yours that keeps you up at night — whether because of the story behind it, the way you captured it, or something intangible? Why is it so memorable for you?
There are many, to be honest. But if I have to talk about one: it’s a photograph of a young couple in an embrace in Ramallah, Palestine. I photographed it in 2016. One of the reasons this photo is meaningful to me was that when I made it, I realised that it represented something I felt about the Middle East that I hadn’t seen represented enough — it showed love. A simple embrace by a couple in a place that is beautiful and filled with beautiful people.
