A few years ago, I allowed my passion and love for the sea and water to begin a project and research very dear to my heart: the sea.
It was not only part of my work as a documentary photographer, but also tied to my deeply personal relationship with the sea since childhood.

In recent years, images of public beaches and their visitors have become more visible and widely shared, though often without the context or depth behind them. Public beaches in Egypt, where middle- and lower-income communities find an affordable summer refuge, hold layers of meaning, memories, and personal stories.

During the summers of 2017 and 2018, I visited four Egyptian beaches along the Mediterranean: Baltim, Gamasa, Ras El Bar, and Alexandria.

The result was ”Shaabi Beaches”

What stayed with me most from those two years was the passion for documenting the beaches and the stories of people making the journey, some of who travel for hours just to spend a brief moment by the water and sand. My approach was rooted in listening to the stories behind these often photographed sceneries that are – in the meantime – slowly disappearing as public spaces are being replaced by privately owned properties in Egypt.

Masaru Emoto writes in The Hidden Messages in Water: “The world changes day by day, and water is the first to reflect that change.”

But what does the world look like on the other side of the Mediterranean?
How does the water reflect those realities?
Are the people the same?

On the opposite shore, during the summers of 2021 and 2022, I roamed the beaches of Marseille, exploring people’s relationship with the sea through the project “Marseille le métissage.” The word “métissage” means “melting pot” or “blending of races,” an expression that reflects the diversity of cultures, languages, and origins.

Between the two shores, the sea remains the same. Yet the relationship people have with their bodies, and with the spaces they share, differs.

One striking contrast between the Mediterranean’s two sides lies in the availability of public space. In Egypt, these public beaches are shrinking, and the sea feels increasingly distant, whether through physical walls or economic barriers that limit the possibility of simply pausing to look at the horizon.

I have witnessed how access to the sea can offer a cathartic experience for people. In Between Two Shores, I saw an overflow of emotions the moment people turn their backs to the city and face the water. It is in that moment that we free ourselves from our constraints, facing our fears, anxiety, and tensions buried within us. It is in that moment that we can see a certain liberation of constraints, fears, anxiety, and tensions deep within.

This work is not a visual comparison between beaches or between social classes, but rather a journey to understand our relationship with the sea. It can reflect our relationship with our bodies, our children, our food, and the circles—near and far—that make up our lives. It is a mirror of our emotions, of connection and distance, and of our inner struggles.

Between Two Shores is an attempt to discover the meaning of the word “popular,” not in its class-related sense, but in its deeper sense, which is “accessible to all.”

"Thank you, God, for the sea today."

"We're made of water, we love water, and that's why we’re always connected to it. Every life begins in it. They say we're made up of 95% water, right? There's something magical about water—it always draws us in, and we become so much better when we're close to it."

I think my connection to water began a very long time ago, maybe when I was a child. While going through some old photos, I found pictures of myself on summer holidays in places like Alexandria and Baltim. But those photos were from when I was very young, because later on, going to the beach wasn’t easy for my family due to financial struggles and other responsibilities. My mom always told me the story of the first time I went out on my own as a child—it was during a holiday in Alexandria. Around 6 a.m., I left without telling anyone and headed to the sea by myself. One of the people with us on holiday saw me in the street and brought me back. If it hadn’t been for her, I would’ve gotten lost. They wouldn’t have found me because I was so little. Since then, my mom developed a constant fear that I’d drown or get lost, even if I was just on the shore.

When I was 18, the Jesuits announced a retreat trip to Hurghada that included prayer, meditation, and various activities. But what drew me most was that we’d be staying at a convent with its own private beach, and we’d get to swim in the sea every day after the activities and prayers. Hurghada and the Red Sea were like a dream to me—its sea felt precious and out of reach, but I’d always heard stories about how beautiful it was with all its colorful fish.

I made the decision and went on the trip. Every day, we’d finish our activities and go down to the sea. After swimming, we’d gather to share about our day and pray. Anyone could volunteer to speak or say a prayer. It was optional, but I was always the first to start. Over the next few days, my prayer was always very simple: "Thank you, God, for the sea today. It was so beautiful."

On the fourth day, Father Youssef interrupted me, with both a humorous and annoyed tone. He spoke in broken Arabic because he was from Malta: "Roger, you’re thanking God for the sea every day! You came here to pray and take part with us, not to sleep all day and escape the activities just to swim in the sea."

After that, I joined all the activities and attended everything, but all I could think about was the sea. And my prayer, from then on, became a secret one every day: "Thank you, God, for the sea today."

The Sea Is Ours

In 2021, in Marseille, I met Arab and Tarzan, twin filmmakers from Gaza,They had just moved to Marseille from Paris. We walked and talked long, and became friends. I like making portraits of people I care about. So, I offered to take their portrait. They chose the sea as the location, at the end of their long daily walk together.

When I asked them, "Why the sea?", they said, "It's the closest place to us because, on the other side, we can see and feel Gaza." this was in 2021, they then told me about their six years in Paris, describing it as depressing and like a prison because they couldn't see the sea or the sun. They said that, compared to Paris, Gaza was much better because the sea was only ten minutes from their home. In moments of joy, sadness, success, anger, or even when they needed to escape, they would go to the sea.

That’s why they moved to Marseille, to be closer to the sea and to Gaza. Since then, I’ve often thought about what they said, and I dreamed of creating the third part of my project about the sea in Gaza. I pursued it, and it was about to happen in the summer of 2023, but it got postponed to 2024. Then, the war broke out.

At that time, I met Marine, my French journalist friend, in Cairo. She was roaming the streets of Cairo day and night, trying to help Gazan families escape. I had first met her in Marseille.

When I told her about my dream of completing the third part of my project in Gaza, she said, "We will make this project happen, you’ll see." Until we could, she created a group between us on Instagram called "The Sea Is Ours", where she started sharing photos of the sea in Gaza that is circulating on social media, some from people she knew personally, as she had lived in Palestine for four years.

Through pictures of the sea in times of peace or war. I began to understand even more the deep connection Gazans have with the sea in what is often described as the world’s largest open-air prison.

I remembered the words of a senior official in Gaza when he told me in a friendly conversation:
"Were it not for the sea, Gazans wouldn’t have lasted even one year under the Israeli blockade. The sea was our only savior… were it not for the sea."

To the souls of the thousands of Palestinians who dreamt of seeing the sea, and to the soul of my good friend Marine Vlahovic (1985 – 2024).

Between Two Shores

Exhibition text

"Thank you, God, for the sea today."

The Sea Is Ours

Captions Map