What we do at gatherings like the camel races is a gentle instinct and resistance to preserve our traditions for the generations to come.
Abdelaziz Mousa Al-Khaldi is a Canada-born Jordanian photographer and filmmaker grounded in his Bedouin heritage. Moving from self-taught commercial photography to documentary work, his practice explores culture, memory, and lived experience. Informed by his background in psychopathology, his work pays close attention to human behavior, oral traditions, and identity, navigating the intersections of tradition, technology, and Western influence.
KHAMSA had the pleasure of exchanging with Abdelaziz Mousa Al-Khaldi in an interview, exploring the narratives and sensibilities shaping his practice.
١. Can you describe a moment during the races when you felt that bond with camels in a tangible, almost spiritual way?
During the camel racing festival, you meet tribes from so many Arab countries, and it’s customary to call people by their last name or by their fathers’ names, ex; Bin Khaled (Son of Khaled). You get used to hearing these lineages everywhere. But on the very first day of the race, I kept hearing unfamiliar feminine and masculine names being mentioned with the same tone of legacy and respect. It took me a moment to realize they were referring to the camels, their mothers, their grandfathers, their entire bloodlines. One name that stood out to me was a seven year old camel passed down through five generations, she was called Raghda bint Sarhan meaning “Prosperity, the Daughter of Freedom” in Arabic. That’s when it hit me: any living soul is worth no less than any soul. Our bond extends so deeply that we greet them with the same pride and recognition we offer humans. Camels hold the stories of who we are and how our lineage survived the harsh desert. And in moments like that, you understand the connection isn’t symbolic or romanticized, it’s lived, passed down through generations, and felt the second you’re immersed in it.
٢. You camped for a week in Wadi Al-Disah with your family.
What did those nights reveal about Bedouin community that outsiders rarely get to see?
What struck me as magical and sacred during that week was how, despite our modern obligations, everyone fully belongs in the moment. Time feels suspended. There’s a rhythm: elders relaxing and enjoying the presence of their children, young kids serving coffee and tending the fire, teenagers and young adults cooking, and fathers discussing responsibilities or sharing advice. Everyone contributes naturally and generously, creating a living, breathing expression of Bedouin community under one tent. Outsiders rarely experience this fully unless they are born into this social system and understand the hierarchy of responsibilities as you age within your family or tribe. Guests are treated with warmth and generosity, never expected to take a role, and instead are welcomed into the flow with ease.
٣. As someone born and raised in Canada, what was the exact moment you felt the pull to return to Jordan and root your practice in Bedouin culture?
For a long time, I was fighting against a current of resistance without even realizing it. In Canada, I felt like part of the cultural mosaic, but I also carried an unspoken obligation to dilute or curate my identity in my art to appeal to a Western audience. As a 24-year-old, fresh into the professional world after graduating, and as an artist without a strong cultural voice in my work, I now see how damaging that can be if it goes unaddressed.
I remember being at a creative networking event when someone asked me outright, without hesitation, “If it’s so hard, maybe you should go back to Jordan.” At first, I took offence. But then I realized they were right and I was grateful. I had been living under the illusion that I had to fit into a mold, sand my edges, and belong somewhere else. But maybe I’m my own pot that needs to grow where I am. I’m Canadian, yes, but I don’t need to be part of something bigger to be seen. I can simply exist while also allowing others to do the same without interfering, nothing less, nothing more.
٤. You speak about Bedouins being central to Jordan’s identity yet rarely centered in its global narrative. Why do you think that disconnect exists today ?
I believe the disconnect comes from a mix of rapid modernization, cross cultural refugee influences, and
socioeconomic divides. Remnants of the British mandate shaped education, cultural norms, and dress codes in Jordan, while in the capital, Western lifestyles, private schools, luxury goods, English mixed in with Arabic words became the markers of success. With time adapting Western benchmarks for modernity among Jordanians has overshadowed the visibility of their own traditions, leaving much of Jordan’s multifaceted identity underrepresented on the world stage. Outside the capital, the picture is different. Many communities still lack basic resources, so survival naturally takes priority over preserving songs, clothing, and arts. Yet the core of Bedouin culture, virtues, manners, dialects, and dignity still endures. There’s also a misconception that all Bedouins live in tents and ride camels. While there’s some truth, we also have modern responsibilities: businesses, university, jobs, daily life. What we do at gatherings like the camel races isn’t required, it’s a choice, a gentle instinct and resistance to preserve our traditions for the generations to come.
٥. Is there someone you met recently whose creativity stayed with you?
Not recently, but someone whose creativity has inspired and stayed with me is my grandmother, Sheikha Sameera.She is our matriarch and raised an entire family after the martyrdom of my grandfather, at a time when it was incredibly difficult for women to build careers in the desert. Undeterred, she launched her own women’s arts program in Al-Mafraq, Jordan, teaching crafts and artisan knowledge deeply connected to our culture; beadwork, embroidery, woodwork, fashion design, fermenting crops, and painting.
Even just being around her feels like encountering art: the way she speaks, dresses, and carries out her daily rituals. Her Bedouin pride, rooted in an honourable tribe, is palpable. Her story is one of many from the past, and sometimes I grieve the lost knowledge and creativity of the women before her. But her legacy inspires me to preserve and amplify this culture for future generations of Bedouin artists, especially women.
٦. How does your lens change when the story is also your inheritance?
Photographing a camel race from the inside, as someone who grew up with it, is a very different experience from approaching it as an outsider. For me, it doesn’t fundamentally change my memories of attending races, even without documenting them, they are embedded in my eyes and my understanding of the event. But I can explain it in three interconnected ways:
Physically, the camera becomes an extension of my eye. It’s how I move, focus, and frame, capturing what my body and vision already know. Cognitively, I’m processing the images through memory and experience. I’ve seen these races countless times, but each year I return with a renewed perspective, this year especially guided by the intention to tell our stories digitally, with care and curation.
Metacognitively, the difference an outsider might have is awareness of their own seeing, a conscious reflection on perception. I don’t need or perceive that last layer; it’s instinctive. My heightened awareness comes naturally from living within the culture. This allows me to document as literal as my own eyes shaped by Bedouin upbringing and memory.
٧. What parts of Bedouin culture do you fear are the most vulnerable right now? and which ones feel unbreakable?
Our self-awareness and understanding of our place in Jordan is like an iron-clad wall. Within our tribes and families, we know we are ancestral to this land, and each of us understands our family’s contributions to its history. That connection, our knowledge of legacy, even when rooted in hardship, poverty, or martyrdom is unbreakable. We know without it, this beautiful country wouldn’t be here today. Some of the more vulnerable aspects of Bedouin culture I have been noticing are visible in language, dialect, and traditional attire. Just a generation ago, our grandparents wore the thobe and red shemagh daily, and you still see that among the older population in Amman. Today, when I wear mine, people sometimes question if I live in Amman, assuming Bedouins only exist in northern or southern Jordan, or in Gulf countries. I believe preserving pride in our dialect and cultural dress is a form of resistance to ensure these expressions of identity endure alongside modernization and westernization.
٨. What do you hope a KHAMSA reader feels when they see this story?
For everyone reading this, I want them to understand that Bedouin life is rooted in virtue, in generosity, kind words, principled mindsets, and strong faith. Even though I was born and raised in Canada, every summer for 24 years I returned here and still felt a sense of belonging. Our way of life isn’t measured by material wealth or performance; you always have a place in your origins as long as you honor the core human values of your culture. For anyone struggling with diaspora or cultural identity, I hope this story inspires a sense of belonging. If you practice your traditions with integrity, you will be seen and respected. Bedouins are often misrepresented as uneducated, poor, or aggressive, but the reality is different: our men have gentle hearts, capable of compassion for even the largest of animals, and our women are maternal, matriarchal, and soft yet strong. Our youth are smart, full of life, eager to evolve while staying authentic. And just because some of our ancestors lived in the desert, herding sheep under the scorching sun or in tents without formal education, doesn’t make our story any less beautiful or valuable.
Our survival, our traditions, and our culture are rich, nuanced, and deserving of respect and recognition equally as all countries.
