Growing up between these two identities wasn’t always easy: I felt caught between modernity and tradition, French and Arabic, two ways of life. I never fully belonged in either of my two countries. I felt guilt, shame, sometimes inadequate.
People like boxes. A simple, standardised box. You’re either this or that. In Morocco, because of my French upbringing and hesitant Arabic language, I was often misunderstood. In France, because of my curly hair and olive skin, people labelled me as Moroccan. As a young adult, I fought back: instead of letting people choose who I was, I picked a side. I would be just French. Easier to say and explain. I straightened my hair, leaned into one side of my identity and slowly distanced myself from the other. I began to see Morocco through a more critical lens: too slow, archaic, too far from the modern world I wanted to be a part of. For a while, it felt like progress. But identity is a tricky thing. It doesn’t disappear just because you ignore it.
Ever since I was a child, curiosity has always been a driving force for me. I was lucky to be in a family that enjoyed travelling. We would sometimes join my dad on his business trips or visit a country of our choosing. I kept detailed travel diaries describing what we ate, what we saw and the small details that made these places unique. A good adventure always involved trying local and snacks. As an adult, I travelled even further. And everywhere I went, people asked the same question: “Where are you from? French, yes that’s your passport but where are you originally from?” It used to annoy me but over time, I began to see my Moroccan identity differently. Taxi drivers in Zanzibar called me “sister” because I was African, Colombians cheered me because of the Moroccan football team, Japanese women admired my hair, my eyes, things I had once tried to soften. For the first time, I realised: this part of me wasn’t something to hide. Maybe I could shapeshift depending on the context and be one or the other identity.
10 years ago, I moved to London for a job and something shifted. London helped me find a balance and a new sense of belonging. London is a place where people come from everywhere and build something new. For the first time, I didn’t feel like I had to explain myself. I saw mixed couples like my parents everywhere. Fusion food was trendy. People were curious, open, hungry for new flavours. Being both French and Moroccan wasn’t confusing, it was interesting. Valuable, even. Londoners not only embraced multiple identities but thrived in diversity.
When friends asked me to take them to a Moroccan restaurant, I struggled. Moroccan cuisine was often amalgamated as Middle Eastern, simplified or misunderstood. My newfound Moroccan pride was outraged. Moroccan hummus? Nonsense! Moroccan food is rich, diverse, layered with history and regional identity. It deserved more than that. How come anyone has heard of pastilla or gazelle horns? I had to take the matter in my own hands. I threw Moroccan dinners and parties for my friends. I reimagined traditional dishes, blending them with techniques and flavours I had discovered through travel. I made them lighter, more accessible, more in tune with modern life while still respecting their roots.
After more than 16 years in the tech world, I stepped away. I gave myself a year to reset, to travel, to reflect on what I truly wanted. That’s when I joined Le Cordon Bleu, the culinary school and trained in boulangerie and pastries. I learnt that baking was not only an art but also a science. In the middle of baking croissants, baguettes & sourdough loaves, I started thinking about my own bread culture and how it has shaped my childhood as much as French baking had. Fluffy batbouts alongside a piping hot chicken tagine, crispy sfenj doughnuts with a glass of mint tea. I also thought about French buttery brioches proofing on top of the fridge and rustic pies made with the garden fruits. I thought about all my trips abroad that quenched my curiosity for flavours: food tours in markets, booking famous restaurants before I even booked flights. I thought about the contrasts, the overlaps, the possibilities.
And I realised: I didn’t have to choose between any of my cultures. I could be both and more. Zellige was born from that realisation.
From the acceptance that identity can be layered, evolving, and complex.
From the desire to bring Moroccan flavours into a modern, accessible space.
From the need to create something that reflects not just where I come from but everything I’ve experienced along the way.
Zellige is not about choosing between cultures. It’s about embracing the space in between.