by Adbo Shanan
As part of the Eidolon Grant, Algerian artist Abdo Shanan presents 'The Right to a Memory'—a multimedia project that reclaims everyday photographic practices as both personal and collective archives. Challenging the dominance of colonial and state-controlled imagery in Algeria, the project constructs an inclusive visual counter-narrative, grounded in found family photo albums. With support from the Eidolon Grant, a series of short videos brings these archives and Shanan’s research to life, weaving together photography, diverse soundscapes, interviews, and intimate testimonies to portray a complex and deeply human portrait of Algerian memory.
In this article, you can watch the first two short-form videos of the project and read Abdo Shanan’s introduction to the broader context behind 'The Right to a Memory'.
One afternoon, I was sitting with a friend in a café in Algiers when he pointed to the photographs on the walls. Black-and-white images of the city during the colonial era. All taken by Europeans. All seen through the eyes of the colonizer. After more than sixty years after independence, why are we still decorating our spaces with these images? It’s not just about aesthetics. These photographs weren’t neutral, they were tools of domination, tools of exoticization. They helped shape how Algeria was seen and, more importantly, how Algerians were made invisible. And somehow, they’re still here, still on display. Meanwhile, the visual memory of Algerians themselves, what we saw, how we lived, what we chose to preserve, remains mostly hidden.
Photography in Algeria has long been tied to power. Under French rule, it was used to survey, to control, to document a version of reality that served colonial interests. After independence, that grip didn’t loosen. It shifted. The state took hold of visual culture, using it to build a heroic image of the nation. State-owned newspapers played a big role in this, images were carefully selected to promote unity, strength, progress. Anything that didn’t fit the narrative was left out. In the process, something crucial was lost. The state’s version of memory is linear, curated, and loud. But there’s another kind of archive, quiet, scattered, and fragile. It lives in family photo albums, tucked away in drawers, passed hand to hand. These photographs, taken at weddings, birthdays, in kitchens, courtyards, and living rooms, hold a different kind of truth. They carry the weight of personal memory, of things too small or too ordinary to make it into the national story. But that’s precisely where their power lies.
The Right to a Memory (2023–) began as a response to that absence. A refusal to accept erasure. It’s an attempt to build a counter-archive from the ground up, using personal photographs, oral histories, and forgotten fragments. These images may not circulate publicly the way press photos do, but they travel, from one home to another, across generations, in the ways we remember and retell. In Algeria, there’s a clear divide between what is allowed to circulate and what isn’t. Official memory tends to be uniform, controlled, and performative. Private memory, on the other hand, is fragmented, intimate, often resistant. I’m interested in that distinction, and in the space where the two begin to overlap.
The project is unfolding slowly, in layers. My plan is to share different parts as they come together, starting with these two videos and will follow up with a fanzine soon, while continuing to work toward the final outcomes: a book and an exhibition. I would rather not wait until everything is finished to start putting things out into the world. Releasing parts along the way is important, not just to keep the momentum going, but to open up space for reflection, conversation, feedback, and support as the project grows. Each piece builds on the last, helping shape what comes next.
These two videos are the first step, an entry point into some of the questions the project is trying to ask:
In the first video, I place two sets of images in conversation: newspaper photographs from the post-independence era, and photos from the family albums of Fatah Belmekki, the first person who allowed me to scan his archives. The contrast is immediate. On one side, a tightly choreographed narrative of national pride. On the other, the texture of everyday life: a birthday cake, a gesture, a wedding. Together, they speak not just to what was shown, but to what was left out.
The second video, looks at ID photos, images that sit somewhere between the personal and the official. These are regulated by the state: fixed posture, neutral expression, standardized lighting. They reflect how power sees us, flattened, biometric, stripped of personality. And yet, if looked closely, some people find ways to resist. A slight smile, a tilted head, a shirt collar that doesn’t quite sit right. Small gestures that reveal a bit more personality of these individuals. At its core, this project is about gathering. Not just images, but voices, memories, silences. I’ve been meeting people, listening to their stories, scanning the photos they choose to share. I hope that the work remains accessible, grounded in the community it comes from. Because The Right to a Memory isn’t abstract. It’s personal. And it matters who gets to remember, and how.
This project was supported by the Eidolon Grant programme of the Eidolon Centre for Everyday Photography and carried out by Abdo Shanan. The artist’s website can be found here.
