In Wathek, we trust

“This was all in my bedroom for like the past five, six years,” Wathek Allal says, almost offhandedly, as he points to heaps of clothes in storage boxes and racks that line the walls of his Dubai studio. However, Wathek’s upbringing couldn’t be further from his quaint, suburban creative space or even his Dubai bedroom, for that matter.

Born to Algerian parents in Damascus, Wathek spent his childhood in the dense, labyrinthine streets of Yarmouk, a district that, at its pre-war peak, housed over 100,000 registered refugees, making it Syria’s largest “unofficial” refugee camp. During those formative years, he developed a penchant for graffiti and breakdance culture, which he approached with ingenuity only an Algerian kid from Yarmouk could muster.

Originally published in Dazed MENA issue 00 | Order here

“We would graffiti anything we could get our hands on. At school, I started charging girls to graffiti their names on their hijabs. I wasn’t allowed to speak to girls because it was a gender-segregated school, so I would do it through my sisters. They would get me scarves, and I’d graffiti them at home, and the next day, they’d give them back and collect the money. So yeah, that’s my first kind of practice.” 

This inventive hustle wasn’t just a creative outlet. Unbeknownst to Wathek, it foreshadowed the entrepreneurial and artistic spirit he’d embody years later. Come 2012, however, as the war in Syria reached Damascus, 16-year-old Allal and his family would undergo the life-changing experience of fleeing to Dubai and leaving everything they’d known overnight. 

“We were still in pyjamas when we drove to the airport. My siblings and I didn’t know where we were going. Because if, as kids, we knew that we were travelling, we might have been exposed, and then we would’ve been sent back. So we ended up here [in Dubai] without anything, any pictures of us, nothing.” 

Starting over in a city worlds apart from everything he had known, where people lived far more polished lives than his, hit hard. He still had to learn English, and Arabic wasn’t precisely the lingua franca amongst Dubai’s multicultural demographic. Still, clinging onto the faithful graffiti and breakdance culture he resonated with for most of his childhood, Wathek found himself drawn to Dubai’s skateparks—not for skating initially, but for the murals. “I went there to see the graffiti and just sat there. There were a lot of skaters, and I just kept watching them for hours, and I loved it. I didn’t know how to speak English, and I didn’t know how to make friends, so skating was something where I didn’t have to talk. I can make friends without speaking, which made things a lot easier. And it’s also something I could do on my own.” 

Within a short span, he’d become a regular in Dubai’s skate scene and even worked as an instructor at local skateparks. Through skating, he also found himself at the heart of a creative community like he’d never experienced before. Photographers, filmmakers, and designers were all orbiting around the community’s sheer energy and magnetism. “Photographers like Chndy would come to shoot us, and next thing you know, we’re invited to an exhibition in Alserkal Avenue showing pictures of us.”

Even while being very much at the heart of this creative ecosystem, Wathek’s first brush with fashion wouldn’t stem from a moment of divine inspiration per se, but let’s say instead, a moment of deep frustration. After seeing a pair of embroidered jeans that caught his eye at Forever 21, Wathek would become so flustered that they were only made for women and that the sizing didn’t work for him, that he would get his own pair of jeans and get them embroidered himself. “I really liked the jeans, and then a friend liked them, so I made him a pair too. And then, I fell in love with the idea that I could just make something instead of looking for it. So I decided to make my own tracksuit too.”

This time, Wathek would make a tracksuit from scratch, just for himself, completely unbranded. It wouldn’t be long before his friends would clamour for one of their own. He would make several of them and sell them for a small profit. And just like that, the 9th-grade hustler from Yarmouk had found his way back, only this time he was armed with a lot more than a spray can and a headscarf, but rather access to material, resources and, most importantly, a vision that would organically transform into one of the most sought-after independent labels in the region today.

By 2017, Precious Trust (PT) was born—not as a polished brand but as a creative playground where Wathek experimented freely with anything from skate culture-inspired streetwear to preppy, floral, bespoke pieces. He started selling clothes on Instagram and at skate parks. He hosted pop-ups around his new collections all across Dubai. “I wasn’t just making clothes,” he says. “I was creating a world around each piece. The first pop-up I did was a fake florist, with a live performance by a band called Flower Shop. Each piece came wrapped like a bouquet.” He even went as far as creating a short film for every collection he’s made since he started.

Within a couple of years, Wathek would find himself taking PT beyond the confines of Dubai, setting up several pop-ups in London and South Africa that would see the likes of Mac Demarco walk through their doors.“One day, I got contacted by Burberry, and they’re like, we want to fly you out to Riccardo Tisci’s first show. I was still a kid, but I had the visa for six months, and I felt like I had to use it because I didn’t think I would ever get it again.” Once back in Dubai from the Burberry show, Wathek immediately got to work on a new collection. With the support of friends he’d met in Nigeria some time prior, he found a space, brought in a big rug and some racks for his clothes, some friends to DJ and it was an instant success.

These international pop-ups would springboard Precious Trust’s reputation with the global and regional creative community, cementing it as a brand with international appeal and helping him foster strong connections with incredible creatives like Olaolu Slawn, Mowalola Ogunlesi, Corteiz’s Clint Ogbenna, Luke Doman and Salik Harris of Pot Plant Club and many more. He would also go on to work on regional string collaborations from UAE label Amongst Few to Ramallah’s quintessential BLTNM Records for the release of Al Nather and Shabjdeed’s SULTAN album.

Looking at what Wathek achieved with one successfully conceptualised and curated drop after another, one could easily overlook the nuances of what he’s doing with Precious Trust. There is so much more than meets the eye. Not only is he subtly weaving elements of his Algerian heritage into the brand, but also countless personal stories and memories.“My granddad used to give himself his own tattoos using nothing but herbs and a knife. Tattoos like this eye or this shape here,” he reminisced while holding up a sweater from an upcoming collection. 

“Skating, Algeria, Damascus and the story of how I moved here. These are the things that give me things to talk about through Precious Trust,” he said as his eyes wandered off to his studio vision board. “I have this t-shirt that says Qesset Hob Laselkya (Wireless Love Story), another one there that says Zahra Fi Asefah (A Flower Caught in A Storm). They all mean so much to me. There’s a reason why they say that. It’s based on an interaction or a memory. Even what I write on the back of the tags. The fragility of the name Precious Trust itself is very, very personal.”

This ethos of guarded symbolism may be a natural byproduct of Wathek and his journey. He’d never just announce to you that he grew up in a refugee camp or fled war in his teens unless you interrogate him about it, the same way he’d never reveal what’s behind every single one of his designs either. There is something precious, perhaps even sacred to be guarded about every little thing he does, too sacred to be said aloud lest it lose meaning or fall onto indifferent ears and hearts. Only those who can be trusted get to know. He won’t just hand over his stories lightly—you have to earn them.

There are two Watheks, depending on who you ask: the prolific designer behind PT or the Wathek who is still down by the skatepark every weekend with the same group of friends he made before knowing a word of English. There are two Precious Trusts, a cutting-edge label at the forefront of SWANA streetwear and a Precious Trust that is Wathek’s personal journal on fabric. Pick one or pick both. You’ll get plenty of chances to change your mind because, for Wathek, the journey is just getting started. 

Take his word for it: “I don’t want to do just clothing. I want to design jewellery. I want to design furniture. I want to design a car. 10 years from now, I want my house to be everything PT. The house itself, the cutlery and the plates.”

Originally published in Dazed MENA issue 00 | Order here

Producer FATIMA MOURAD, styling assistant IVANE VOUTSINOS, fashion coordinator ALI AMMAR, fashion assistant REEM AL AZAWI, camera assistant SAM ALLISON