In a time when cultural division too often sets the tone of public discourse, Murad Belhaj offers something far quieter and far more powerful.
A British-Libyan artist of Amazigh and Arab heritage, Belhaj doesn’t speak in absolutes. He paints instead, letting each canvas carry a subtle argument – that what we share as people runs deeper than what separates us.
“I try to let the brush carry what words sometimes can’t”, he says. “To show that we’re more connected than we think”.
Born in Tripoli, Belhaj’s world was shaped by three landscapes: the narrow alleys of the Old City, the high stone rhythms of the Nafusa mountains, and the muted skies of Britain. Each gave him something – a texture, a silence, a scale. He does not pit them against each other. In his art, they coexist.
A painting of a boy carrying pomegranates might seem straightforward – a daily scene in Tripoli. But its geometry quietly echoes Amazigh architecture, its light carries a northern softness, and its framing suggests the calm restraint of European portraiture. The result is deeply Libyan, yet never parochial.
Belhaj is not interested in declaring identity, but in revealing it. His work does not ask to be noticed – it asks to be looked at slowly.
“I don’t believe in purity”, he says. “I believe in mixture. That’s how culture breathes. That’s how people grow”.
This isn’t theory. It’s a position shaped by rigorous thought. Belhaj draws heavily from his continuous reading of philosophy, sociology, and art history – disciplines he considers essential to the artist’s role in society. Through them, he explores the idea of a human identity that is broad enough to accept everyone and deep enough to be accepted by all. His aspiration is not simply to paint well, but to think clearly – and to build, through his work, a visual language that transcends borders and binary categories.
His thinking informs his brushwork: patient, reflective, and always resisting the temptation of the obvious. His paintings are not essays. They are meditations – acts of quiet clarity.
Much of this sensibility comes from his Amazigh roots. He often returns in conversation to the architecture of the mountain – homes built from local stone, walls shaped by wind and need, never excess. “We didn’t force the land”, he says. “We worked with it”. This principle, of form following nature, shapes the way he thinks – about buildings, yes, but also about people.
This attentiveness has become his ethic. Belhaj does not argue. He observes. He paints not conclusions, but openings. He avoids grand themes in favour of the small, the human: a woman’s hand drawing water; a horse mid-turn on a village track; light on an olive tree wall. These are not decorative scenes. They are acts of attention.
“A painting doesn’t have to shout to speak”, he says. “Sometimes it just has to be present. Honest. Open”.
Belhaj’s approach carries into his conversations with others. He believes in the necessity of diversity in society and works to embed these values into his drawings, his writing, and his dialogue with others. He often speaks with students, thinkers, and fellow artists about the responsibility of participation – showing up, listening, creating beyond inherited lines. For him, the role of the artist is not only to see, but to help others see – and to make visible the common space between different lives.
He applies this philosophy to Libya with great care. His patriotism is not symbolic. It is rooted – in memory, gesture, and a particular way of seeing. For him, Libya lives in the smell of olive oil heating on a winter stove, in the shape of a doorway in Gharyan, in the sound of a traditional flute at dusk. These are not romantic relics. They are a living archive.
“We are richer than we know”, he says. “But we must look with our own eyes – not with eyes trained to see only conflict”.
In Belhaj’s view, Libya is not a question of either/or. It is a country made of layers – Arab, Amazigh, Mediterranean, Saharan – and strength lies in their blend. His work reflects this: not a fixed image of identity, but a moving one. Not propaganda, but poetry.
“In the end”, he says, “I’m just trying to paint what I hope Libya can remember about itself”.
There are no slogans here. No claims of truth. Just a man, a brush, and a steady refusal to reduce a country to a single frame.
In the hands of Murad Belhaj, Libya is not explained. It is seen.
