Alfredo Cáliz, Photographer: “With Morocco, there are longstanding prejudices followed by a significant historical misunderstanding.”

It all begins with a family legend. Grandfather Juan de Dios carried Franco on his back during the Alhucemas Landings (September 8, 1925). A young man from Granada, at 19 years old, driven by propaganda and patriotic fervor, enlisted in the newly created Spanish Legion, carrying on his shoulders the then-colonel who would later lead the coup d’état of 1936 and establish a 40-year dictatorship across the Mediterranean. This story serves as a thread for photographer Alfredo Cáliz (Madrid, 57 years old) to dive into the relationships between Spain and Morocco, historical memory, or family traumas and those of the countries in his new book Photography of Disaster (Àfriques Edicions, 2025). This work is difficult to classify within a specific literary genre and is permeated by the search for forgiveness.

Question. Do countries, like people, have memory?

Answer. Countries are built in relation to, or against, other countries. From opposition, from contrasts, arises the definition of who we are. In other words, identity, which seems like the most fixed thing in the world, does not spring from the ground; it is constructed in front of the other.

Q. The question was whether countries have memory.

A. I believe they do, even though memory is fragile, which is why I would trust history more. And although it sometimes pains me to see the two words together, historical memory, we have to call that form of restoring justice to the parties when there is trauma.

A part of our history has been taken from us, silenced. It’s the Arabic influence on the peninsula. I think it relates to a sin of Islamophobia.

Q. Do countries also have traumas, then?

A. Of course, countries accumulate unresolved traumas. I think the most recent one for Spain is the Civil War, which still leaves many loose ends. These are things that are unresolved; they can’t be swept under the carpet because they will resurface.

Q. Does your book talk about this?

A. This book also addresses a part of our history that has been taken from us, silenced. It’s the Arabic influence on the peninsula. I think it relates to a sin of Islamophobia. We will not fully complete ourselves or break away from the trauma until we incorporate that part of ourselves that we have lost until now. I believe that the construction of this traumatized Spain relates to the creation of a Spain that forgets one of its parts.

Q. Does this manifest in the relationship between Spain and Morocco?

A. Certainly, that’s where the trauma lies because a country like ours is built on denial. We have projected our negative image onto Morocco. We have denied that relationship, which is one of great exchange and very fruitful. Perhaps due to that trait, that Islamophobia, we have constructed an identity based on not being like them. With Morocco, there are, first, centuries-old prejudices and then a significant historical misunderstanding.

Q. In your book, you state that in the Rif, in the former Spanish Protectorate, there is a relationship of love and hate with Spain.

A. The Rif people have always been divided, and they still are. They have many tribes that have never been fully united, some in favor of Spanish presence, others against it. Abd el-Krim, who I talk a lot about in my book because he is a crucial historical figure for understanding the Rif, Spain, and Morocco, was the first to unify the tribes in an effort against the Spanish occupation and proclaim the Republic of the Rif, right after the Disaster of Annual (July 1921). The idea of the Republic remains very alive in northern Morocco because, truly, it is with whom the Rif feels a profound disenchantment that is with the Majzén, the Moroccan state.

Q. Is that family legend about your grandfather and the Alhucemas landing what brought you to Morocco, a country that features in your first photography book Inshalláh?

A. I went to Morocco in 1992 to work as a photographer’s assistant on a film called Orchestra Club Virginia. I was 19 years old. I was just starting to take photos, and it was my first contact with the country. I took a few personal photos, but they were the typical ones of any tourist. And as Gonzalo Fernández-Parrilla says in his book South of Tangier: “One is not in Morocco until one stops doing what one is supposed to do.” So I returned later, and that’s when I fully immersed myself. I got lost many times in the medinas, entered people’s homes, and from that, I connected emotionally very easily with Morocco. From there came 10 years of travels culminating in the publication of my book Inshalláh.

Q. And then, you began your travels through sub-Saharan Africa.

A. The first time I traveled south of the Sahara was in 2000. I had the epiphany that I was white and they were black, clear from the beginning. The first thing I did was photograph a Black photographer. I have done many more of these characters to give them visibility, to invite people to think that they are the ones who need to tell their stories.

Q. What was your first country?

A. Cape Verde. Those were trips commissioned to me by the magazine Marie Claire to Uganda, Senegal, Mali, Nigeria… I was covering Africa, social issues, and I was happy because I started to travel through those countries, linked with journalism, NGO projects, microcredit for women, issues like female genital mutilation or AIDS. And from 2003, I began collaborating with Adolfo Kunjuk News. I went to Sierra Leone with Juan José Millás, and then many more opportunities arose for reports with journalists like Lola Huete, Rafa Ruiz, Tomás Bárbulo. Later with Planeta Futuro, the possibilities of working in Africa and doing journalism greatly expanded.

Q. I remember that Planeta Futuro launched with an article by José Naranjo and yourself about immigration routes: The Journey Begins.

A. That was the first report for Planeta Futuro, and I can say it was the time I enjoyed traveling with Pepe Naranjo the most. We both had the same eagerness to do long pieces, and for a pittance, we made the trips together; it excited us deeply. In that specific report, we spent almost three weeks. Then we went to Senegal and did a report on talibés for 12 days, wherever it was, a gold mine in Ghana. Perhaps I am a photographer from another era, where spending more time in places was the goal. But now it’s done differently; the rise of social media has significantly changed the landscape of journalism. Everything is faster, more immediate, and especially many African journalists and photographers with a strong desire to tell their own stories have emerged. And that is good, very good. From the beginning, at least, I have needed to break with that world divided between those who look and those who are looked at. A division that has often coincided with skin color.

A country like ours is built on denial. We have projected our negative image onto Morocco. We have denied that relationship.

Q. Why did you become a photographer?

A. Because I wanted to go far away. I used photography to leave home, and since the neighborhood scared me, I had to go out into the world.

Q. You wanted to go far away because there were problems at home. Your book starts with the Disaster of Annual, but perhaps the true photography of disaster is not that, but the one related to your relationship with your father. It seems like in the book you want to settle scores with yourself and with him.

A. Yes, both things. With myself and with my father, who left home. And also, in a way, to rid myself of that shadow I describe in the book, that was my father, who did not allow me to enjoy the recognition others gave me because he never gave it to me. So, forgiving cleanses that.

Q. Another theme that runs through your book is forgiveness.

A. Of course, forgiveness is, evidently, a core theme of the book. I was probably starting to forgive my father. And to forgive someone is nothing but to lighten oneself. I believe that there is an exercise to be done, and I have tried to do that in this book.

Q. Returning to the beginning of our conversation, can countries also forgive?

A. Of course, they have to forgive. We talked at the beginning about having memory, traumas… and therefore, they must forgive as well. Forgiveness is fundamental. To forgive is almost like forgetting. And forgetting is good.

Q. And how does a country forgive?

A. I believe it does so with hygiene in institutions, being able to recognize its mistakes, and with a lot of education, not indoctrination.

Q. And will Spain and Morocco be able to forgive each other?

A. Yes, I believe they can. Morocco and Spain have been looking for each other for many years.