Zina Louhaichy’s Meema Al-Musafira is a visual love letter to her Morroccan Teta

Zina Louhaichy’s latest project, MEEMA AL MUSĀFIRA (ميمّا المسافرة), is part tribute, part time travel. Shot in her dad’s NYC apartment with a $7 budget, a green-screen backdrop and a lot of love, it follows her Moroccan grandmother on the imaginary adventures she’s always dreamed of. Funny, tender, and a joyful ode to the women who have made us (physically and spiritually)—it is inspired as much by home videos as it is by the absurdist and surrealist creations of Ionesco and Elia Suleiman.

Through the film, Louhaichy is reimagining what home—and the idea of what rediscovery of the ancestral self—can look like. At 21, the Moroccan-Italian actress, designer, and creative multi-hyphenate is already blending fashion, film, and family stories into something all her own, playful, personal, and full of heart.

Best known for her fashion label Louhaichy—a Brooklyn-to-Casablanca affair—Louhaichy now steps in front of the camera to tell a new kind of story, one about memory, mischief, and making space for our elders to shine. Here, she talks to Dazed MENA about family shoots, Moroccan humour, and why every project is a little bit of a love letter.

What was your inspiration behind the film? What led you to make it?
Over the last few years, my Meema’s sciatica has gotten worse, making it difficult for her to travel. We spend hours together on our sedaris in New York City—where I was born and raised—talking about all the places we dream of visiting. I always try to sneak it in: “Yalla, nemshew L Maghreb. Ana wyak.” (“Come on, let’s go to Morocco. Me and you.”) She always considers it, but her illness holds her back.

I love my Meema so much. She raised my sibling and I with so much care. Growing up in Morocco in the 1940s and ’50s, she had to sacrifice so much—especially her independence—to raise a family. In this project, MEEMA AL MUSĀFIRA (ميمّا المسافرة) — which translates to Meema the Traveler — I wanted to give her her flowers—and let her fly over the cities she’s always dreamed of going to. This film is a tribute to her, but also to all the women who carried dreams of other lives, other places, but sacrificed them for family, survival, and love.

What role does comedy and humour play in this, and your work/practice as a whole? 

North Africans are the funniest people I know. I knew going into this that my budget was $7—literally just enough to buy a green screen. With $7, I wasn’t making a Hollywood blockbuster. But I could make a film in my own silly Moroccan way.

I grew up studying theatre, and I’ve always believed in the power of comedy. Laughter is such a unifier—it brings people together. Whether it’s through humor, fashion, or film, I love creating spaces where people can feel transported. So with MEEMA AL MUSĀFIRA, I did just that—both figuratively and imaginatively.

How was the process of shooting this? I know you turned your whole apartment into a green screen – what was that like?
I shot it in my dad’s house in NYC, and it was chaos in the best way. Our home is very Moroccan—filled with things we’ve held on to throughout my dad’s, my grandma’s, and my own life. Some of it makes no sense: random workout gear, tajines stacked in closets being used as storage, ingredients for msemmen tucked next to photo albums. To set up the green screen, I had to temporarily displace my dad’s carefully curated wall of Moroccan artifacts.

The whole project came together just after I got back from studying abroad in London.  This idea had been living in my head for so long, and finally being home meant I could make it real. I texted my friend Yomna—who always understands my vision—and asked if she’d help assist. Meanwhile, I reminded my Meema every single day leading up to the shoot that we were doing a photoshoot. She’d nod, say “Wakha, Wakha” (“okay, okay,”) but then the day of the shoot rolled around and she protested. “3lesh??” (“Why??”). I told her: “Wa7ed nhar, ana weh yak, ghadi nshofo had l tsawer, weh ghadi nde7ko.” (“One day, you and I are going to look at these photos and laugh.”)

I wanted to freeze time with her. I raided her closet and styled her in outfits I loved—she pushed back on a few, naturally, and swapped out some hijabs for colors she preferred. It was a whole back-and-forth. I set up two lights that I usually use for self-tape auditions and taped the green screen to the walls. We didn’t have a backless chair, so I stacked two Moroccan poufs on top of each other and said, yalla, we’re ready.

There’s something really nostalgic about the whole project. Can you explain your approach to nostalgia in this?
As a child of the diaspora, I often find myself wishing to see the life my family lived before I was born. I always ask them questions—how they came to America, why they left, what they dreamed of, and what they had to give up in Morocco to raise a family in New York City.

Still, there’s so much from their past I’ll never fully know or understand. But through image and video, I catch glimpses into the past—maybe it’s a glimmer in my Meema’s eye, or the folds of her wrinkles when she laughs. In those moments, I see both the girl she once was and the woman she is now. May Allah (SWT) protect her.

There’s a really surreal and dreamlike essence to the whole work. What role did dreams play in this project and why? Does it connect to how you explored nostalgia in any way?
Speaking to my Meema about her dreams—past, present, and future—is always layered because women from my culture often carry the weight of the world on their backs. They gave up their own dreams—whether it was to study, to travel, or simply to rest—in order to raise us. That sacrifice stays with me. I feel responsible for carrying their legacy forward, and part of that feels possible only through imagining new worlds—through a dream space that lets me reclaim what was once lost.

That’s why the surreal is so important to me. I’ve always loved surrealist theatre—plays like La Cantatrice Chauve by Eugène Ionesco or Ubu Roi by Alfred Jarry—and films like Divine Intervention by Elia Suleiman, which use symbolism and absurdity to reflect the ultimate truth, in an almost comedic way. It is where nostalgia and possibility meet.

There’s a beautiful intergenerational exchange that undercuts the film and a thread between you and your grandmother, highlighting the connection between lineages of women that always remains. Is this something you were actively considering when approaching this film? And was there an element of healing with making it?
In the last few years, I’ve come to understand that I carry a responsibility: to continue the legacy of the women who came before me—alongside my sibling and my cousins. Our last name, Louhaichy, while it’s now also the name of my brand, is more than that. It’s an energy. One you can feel in this film. It’s humor, pride, nostalgia—fashion, theatre, and film—all mixed into one. 

I connected with my Meema in a way I never had before—witnessing sides of her that she doesn’t often show. I feel like this project allowed me to begin touching the surface of my grandmother’s past. But also I need to acknowledge that: I’ll never fully understand it. I can only feel it through the fragments she passes down. MEEMA AL MUSĀFIRA is one of those fragments; it is a story, a memory, a love letter across generations. One I hope to pass down to my own kids, InshAllah.

Often shooting our families brings out a new intimacy and vulnerability as you explore new forms of exchange – you as the artist and your family member as your subject; it’s a really interesting dynamic. Did you experience this? If so, did you learn anything new about your grandmother? 

I’ve never heard my Meema speak about beauty. Before filming on my VHS camera, I took out my Mamiya RZ67 to take a behind the scenes photo of her. She paused me first so she could get her glasses. She told me, “Bghit nkon zwina”—“I want to be beautiful.” That got me really emotional, because she is a woman whose beauty just radiates–in her smile, her nose, her stories, her food, her walk. She is beauty in every single way. Hearing her say those words out loud felt like such a vulnerable moment because it reminded me how important it is to give our elders space to feel seen, cherished, and proud of themselves. They deserve that just as much as anyone.