FAYCAL
ORIGAMI

My relationship with music began in childhood. My late father was a music teacher and an oud player. He introduced me to musical thinking and the fundamentals of the craft. Later I learned guitar and piano, and acquired some knowledge of the oud as well.

In 2006, my journey reached a turning point when I entered the world of ultras and stadium anthems. For me, that experience was much more than supporting a football club. It was a genuine school of songwriting: I learned how a simple idea could become a collective voice shared by thousands. That was where my talent truly began to take shape.

The ultras also taught me lessons beyond music: belonging, solidarity, responsibility, courage, thinking outside the box and independence of thought. I learned how to contribute to a collective without losing my individuality. Out of respect for the culture of anonymity, I choose not to name the group.

My father gave me the foundations; the stands expanded my horizon. Eventually, I began building an independent artistic path under my own identity, searching for ways to blend the energy of stadium anthems with other musical traditions. That led me to ask: why not create a new musical style? I knew it would be difficult, but I believed it was possible.

The beginning was extremely demanding. When you build an independent musical project, you can find yourself responsible for almost everything: the idea, lyrics, composition, performance, sometimes toplining, selecting the right musical mode, recording, listening back, revising and starting again.

I financed the work myself while searching for arrangers who could understand an unfamiliar sound and studios equipped for the recording approach I wanted. Cha3baoui relies heavily on collective choirs; not every producer or engineer immediately understands that language. Sometimes a track still needs a live violin, guembri or trumpet. Then come more sessions, mixes and revisions.

The hardest part, however, was the internal doubt: would all this effort ever become a reality? Even when you believe in your abilities, the uncertainty is real. Some professionals are hesitant to work with a newcomer; others do not give the project the attention you hoped for. Then you release a song after enormous effort and discover that very few people have heard it.

Thankfully, friends believed in me and helped open doors. I will never forget their support. Through persistence, the first EP came to life and connected with listeners. Today I have greater experience and a team of collaborators who understand my direction. This journey has cost me time, personal resources and sacrifices, but passion and faith have kept me going.

I would be dishonest if I pretended that I had already reached a position where I could lecture young artists. I still have a long road ahead and a lot to learn from those who came before me. But to anyone who truly believes in an idea, I would say: act on it, fight for it, knock on every possible door, and leave the rest in God's hands.

I compare it to beginning a football match two goals down. Bringing the idea into the world is your first goal: 2–1. Achieving even modest recognition means you've equalized: 2–2. But the match is not over. Perseverance is what may one day bring a third goal. It is not a literal score for success or failure; it is a reminder that creating something from zero is already progress.

As for the Faycal of 2006, I would not ask him to change his story. Every stage shaped the person I am now. Change one event, and perhaps my life would have taken a completely different direction. I might have been a footballer, another kind of singer, or someone with a different name and vision. There might be no Origami or Cha3baoui.

I see my past not as a problem to fix, but as the journey that made me who I am.

Origami was not a name I suddenly invented for my solo career. Before that, I was part of a separate musical project called Origami Band, entirely unrelated to my ultras experience. From the beginning, we had a shared creative direction and used the Japanese art of paper folding as a visual language in our music videos.

The band did not continue, but for me the end of the group was not the end of its vision. I still believed in what we had begun and decided to develop it independently.

That is how the name Faycal Origami remained. I did not keep it simply out of nostalgia. I kept it because it represented an artistic philosophy in which sound, image and symbol could come together to tell one story.

I carried the torch forward on my own, determined to let the idea continue growing through my work.

The symbol comes after the subject. I begin with the idea, lyrics and musical language of a song, then look for an origami form that can express its meaning. Folded paper is never decoration added merely to make a video look attractive. Every shape has to tell a story.

In “Melit,” a white angel and a red shadow figure evoke the conflict within the self. In “Fi Dlami,” a folded-paper candle is placed among the waves before the sea carries it away. In an earlier song about a deceased mother, “Ya Ma,” a red paper heart containing a message is placed at her grave.

Even in “Ana Cha3baoui,” I built a visual universe inspired by Ghiwani metaphor and the figure of Larbi Batma. Origami musical instruments hang within the scene; every object is connected to a line of the song. I like leaving details for attentive listeners to discover.

The work begins with an idea, the music develops its emotion, and the imagery extends its message. Every fold carries meaning. Every shape tells a story.

Cha3baoui comes from the idea of the spirit of the people. To me it is more than a genre name: it is a way of life and an artistic vision. I developed it as a new musical identity bringing together eight influences: Raï, traditional Chaabi, Pop, Ghiwani music, Gnawa, Moroccan Rap, Classical music, and stadium anthems with collective choirs.

The defining foundation is the chorus. I may sing a verse alone, then allow a powerful collective refrain, inspired by the stands, to transform the energy of the song. At other moments, the choir may enter wherever the music needs it. Even when the influences change, that shared voice helps preserve the identity.

I can create a Gnawa-inspired song featuring guembri and choral singing, collaborate with a rapper as I did with Kingchasa on “Zahri,” or explore another musical color while keeping the Cha3baoui signature.

The logo is based on an eight-pointed star, which I associate with Moroccan visual heritage and cultural identity. Its eight points represent the eight musical influences coming together in one vision. Eight influences, one star, one collective voice.

I don't approach music simply to announce that I have released another record. I need a subject and a message. I want listeners to travel through the lyrics and ask what I am trying to communicate, not simply repeat the refrain and move on.

Many of my songs address social, human or philosophical themes rather than the conventional love subjects dominating popular music. That does not mean I cannot write about love. I can, but through my own perspective and taste. I do not reject music that appeals to audiences; I simply do not want to follow trends for their own sake.

A song can be joyful, hopeful or melancholic and still carry wisdom. What matters is that the idea has a deliberate structure and the words belong where they are placed.

I do not measure a work's value solely by its numbers. To me, music is a message to feel and understand — an experience in which each listener may recognize part of their life.

For me, a song starts with an idea. I identify the subject, then search for a central title that often becomes the anchor of the refrain. From there, I build an introduction, development and conclusion — almost like a carefully structured essay. No word should be there by accident.

I search for a melody and musical mode that fit the emotion of the subject. A sad idea requires a different treatment from a song about celebration or hope. Modes, rhythm, arrangement and performance should support the message rather than contradict it.

Sometimes I write in clear, direct language. When the theme is spiritual or philosophical, I may turn to metaphor, symbolism and poetic imagery. I want to reach both the listener who prefers an immediate message and the one who enjoys analysis and personal interpretation.

My aim is not to prove that I can write complicated words. It is to give each idea the language it deserves. And sometimes I jokingly say: my name is Faycal, and I stand at the crossing between the material and spiritual worlds.

The first Cha3baoui volume was my official introduction of the style. I initially imagined eight songs to echo the eight-pointed star, but producing everything independently was difficult. I realized the symbolic number was less important than bringing the project into existence. So I released six songs in August 2025.

The variety was intentional. One song cannot demonstrate all the influences behind Cha3baoui. I wanted listeners to experience different directions while recognizing the same collective choral spirit. And the first volume is only a beginning: I hope to continue with Volume 2, later volumes and independent singles.

The visual world follows the same philosophy. My sessions bring together a DJ representing modern sound, a Gnawa musician or violinist reflecting musical heritage, and friends gathered in a shared atmosphere. It is my way of showing tradition and modernity in dialogue.

I never expected every track to reach a large audience. If just one song introduced the style to people, that would already be meaningful. “Kayn Allah” connected with listeners organically, without paid advertising or television and radio backing. I felt grateful, and I see that success as a blessing from God — especially given the title and what it means to me.

Cha3baoui is currently associated with me as its creator, but I do not want it to be exclusive to me. I would be genuinely happy to see other artists embrace the idea and bring their own creativity to it. That would mean the vision had reached beyond its originator.

My hope is for Cha3baoui to establish a place among other musical styles. I cannot predict whether that will happen soon or years from now. The first EP showed me that people can connect with the idea, but the road is still long.

For me, success is not just a stream count. What matters is earning respect for the identity and meaning of the music. I know how to make a catchy refrain designed for immediate attention, but I cannot build my career around work I do not believe in.

I prefer to strengthen the foundation gradually, even if recognition takes time. I do not want to rise quickly only to disappear. I want to build something meaningful enough to last.

I deliberately do both. Sometimes I write a post or respond to comments to explain the symbols and ideas behind a song. At other times, I prefer to leave the work open, so listeners can interpret it through their own experiences and connect it to their lives.

What matters is that the message reaches someone, though not necessarily in the same way for everyone. Some people prefer clarity and directness; others enjoy searching for hidden meanings. I also believe there is a particular satisfaction in discovering an interpretation through your own reflection.

If I explain everything, I may take away the pleasure of discovery. If everything remains obscure, the message may be lost. I try to find a balance between the two approaches.

I do not always want to hand you the key. Sometimes I would rather show you the door and let you discover what lies beyond it.

Every work has a place in my journey, but three songs are especially close to my inner world.

“Fi Dlami” was written from the soul. It is the song I feel most deeply connected to spiritually, even if it never reached the audience I had hoped for. It portrays an artist whose hidden abilities are like buried stars capable of illuminating the universe, yet trapped in three forms of darkness: the obstacles of life, a spirit feeling imprisoned within the body, and dreams that have become nightmares. Its metaphors invite reflection beyond the surface.

“Kayn Allah” was written from the heart. It grew from contemplating life as a temporary dream, full of appearances that can distract us from the truth that everything passes and only God remains. It expresses a deeply personal conviction rooted in faith.

“Melit” came from the depths of the self. It explores someone who blames the external world for suffering without recognizing the conflict within. Understanding and reconciling our inner contradictions may begin to transform how we experience life.

“Fi Dlami” is the soul, “Kayn Allah” the heart, and “Melit” the inner self. They show how my music turns inward experience into words, images and sound.

I do not believe the value of art can be measured by streams or views alone. I may release a song that reaches a small audience yet remains among my favorite creations because it allowed me to express everything I truly felt.

I see songwriting as painting. A painter depicts the world through color and form; I paint with lyrics and color the image with melodies. In “Ana Cha3baoui,” I describe painting a canvas of sorrow and coloring it with my music.

I will not always sing what people expect to hear. I want to sing what I see and honestly feel. I paint what I see, not what others wish to see.

That does not mean I refuse to make accessible music that people enjoy. I welcome that. But even a popular song should carry my own taste and artistic perspective. Recognition is a beautiful reward, not the source of the work's value.

I like to combine rhythm and wisdom. In “Kayn Allah,” for example, I chose an energetic Moroccan popular rhythm and traditional violin. The atmosphere is joyful, yet the lyrics contemplate the fleeting nature of worldly life and the deeper truth of existence. A listener can celebrate through the rhythm and, by paying closer attention, discover another layer of meaning.

This approach comes partly from my admiration for Nass El Ghiwane, especially Larbi Batma. Their artistic spirit showed me how popular instruments and collective joy can coexist with serious ideas, even when some listeners engage mainly with the music.

I do not believe a meaningful song has to sound sad, or that joyful music must be superficial. The mood and musical form should work with the subject, but celebration and reflection can coexist within a single track.

I want the melody to move you and the message to make you think.

Not at all. I can write a song in clear, direct language that anybody can understand immediately. I can also create something layered with metaphors, comparisons and symbols when the subject calls for it.

Complexity is not my rule. Meaning is. I cannot fill a melody with random words simply to release another record. A song needs a subject, an idea and some wisdom or message — whether that message is direct or open to interpretation.

Simple writing has as much artistic legitimacy as symbolic poetry. I choose the approach according to the subject, not to appear profound.

Simplicity does not exclude depth, and metaphor is not the only language of wisdom.

Morocco's national team has been a childhood passion. The 1998 World Cup in France left a strong impression on me, with players such as Salaheddine Bassir, Mustapha Hadji and Noureddine Naybet. I was also particularly fond of Reda Riahi. Football has always been part of my life.

After learning to write for the stands, I began wondering why I should not create songs for the national team: anthems that bring joy, celebrate football history and encourage players and supporters. I have tried to finance a song myself for important occasions. Seeing fans share them on Instagram or TikTok, and occasionally seeing players respond, gives me real happiness.

My first national-team song was “Mama Africa.” I later removed it from my current music list, but it remains part of the journey. Then came “Viva Leoni,” inspired by the close timing of the 2025 Arab Cup and the Africa Cup of Nations in Morocco. I placed “Championné” in the chorus to suggest both encouragement to become champions and celebration as if the title had already been won — giving the anthem a life beyond one specific result.

Morocco's Arab Cup victory brought joyful reactions. Reaching the Africa Cup final also created great expectations, though the outcome was not what we hoped, and the song's momentum slowed. I still cherish the experience. One dream is to create a full Cha3baoui EP for the national team, perhaps around the 2030 World Cup co-hosted by Morocco.

These two songs differ from my earlier ultras work because I released them under my own artistic identity. In 2024, Raja's historic league and Throne Cup double brought extraordinary joy. “Championné” became associated with the moment and spread far beyond what I expected — through stories, celebrations, public places and messages from friends.

Raja Club Athletic's digital media team later contacted me to request permission to use the song. I was honored and made the necessary copyright arrangements to allow its inclusion in the club's official documentary. Hearing my work in that film was indescribable. As someone who grew up loving the club, it felt as if my music had become part of the recorded memory of a historic achievement.

During the same period, I produced “Siniya O Lkass” — «الصينية والكأس» — and made it available for the club's official goal and highlight videos. Unlike “Championné,” that song was not in the documentary, and it is important to preserve the distinction.

I financed both songs myself and offered their use without asking the club for money. This was not a rejection of musicians' rights to earn from their work. It was a personal choice rooted in love for the club. Supporters travel and sacrifice simply to be there; I chose to contribute through music. Seeing those songs become part of shared happiness was reward enough, and I remain grateful to God.

I have not yet experienced performing on a major stage before a large crowd, so I cannot pretend to describe that feeling. I once sang for friends during a celebration of my favorite club's title win. I was nervous, but I felt surrounded by brothers rather than an audience.

I do not want to think of people as followers or statistics. I want mutual respect with listeners who connect with my ideas and perhaps discover a small light through the message. I often say: when I point toward the moon, I want you to see the moon, not my finger.

That does not mean I reject the joy of performing together. I would love to share collective rhythm, choirs and celebration on stage. But imagine a stranger stopping me and saying that my way of thinking impressed them even before the music. I would probably reply, “My friend, we need to sit down for a coffee!” That is someone who understood the idea.

I value substance over appearances. Fame and money are not my primary motivation; so far I have invested more in music than it has returned. Of course I welcome income if it comes, but I would still create without it. I make music willingly, out of genuine love.

I cannot separate Faycal the person from Faycal the artist. My music emerges from the person I am. I come from an ordinary Moroccan background, hold five diplomas in different fields, work independently in administrative services, and am a father. I love music, football and Raja Club Athletic.

Family is my foundation. My late father was a parent, friend and teacher who gave me both musical knowledge and lessons in life. My mother, may God protect her, raised me with tenderness and values, and my brothers and sisters remain part of the love and support that sustains me.

Losing my father was one of the hardest experiences of my life. His passing affected me so deeply that I stepped away from music during 2026. I accept God's will, but acceptance does not make grief painless. I hope one day to create an artistic tribute to his memory, not to seek sympathy but to preserve something of him. I have tried to write it and repeatedly found myself unable to continue. If it is ever released, I want people to know that the words came with immense emotional effort and many tears. He taught me how to give music a voice; now I am searching for words that might give his absence a voice.

I naturally enjoy solitude by the sea, in the mountains or in quiet places — not necessarily to find inspiration, but to restore my energy. I also lived through a difficult emotional period that I have, thankfully, overcome. Some unreleased songs, including “Mdamer” and “Mahmouma,” grew from that experience. If I release them, I want the stories to offer understanding or hope rather than glorify pain. I cannot pretend to sing joyfully when I feel sorrow.

I am a Muslim, deeply attached to God, and I approach the Quran as a source of reflection and understanding. I value freedom of thought, honesty, good treatment of others, and avoiding envy or cruelty. I am not perfect; I make mistakes, and I believe in acknowledging and correcting them. Helping someone brings me genuine happiness.

Faycal Origami grew out of Faycal the human being… and the two of us are still walking this journey together.

I did not begin this journey intending to stop here. As long as the mind is free, there can be new ideas. Someone who can create one song may create a hundred more, as long as there is something meaningful left to say. Cha3baoui is a musical identity I built from the ground up. We have laid the foundation; now we are building.

I cannot predict the future. Inspiration arrives unexpectedly, shaped by the circumstances of life. Perhaps the style will find broader recognition soon; perhaps years or future generations will understand aspects that are not yet widely appreciated. Even if it never reaches the success I imagine, it will remain a meaningful part of my life.

What matters is staying on the path without allowing the journey to destroy our principles, artistically or personally. I am a person of faith, and I do not want to be remembered for harmful words or negative messages. I hope my work leaves something good: a thought that helps someone, a truth they had overlooked, a missing thread in their understanding, or a spark of inspiration — even if only for a few people.

I want to use music for constructive messages and thoughtful expression whenever I can. In the end, everything passes: music, money, fame and worldly life. Only God remains. “Kayn Gha Allah.” May God guide us all.