I was born in the 1980s in Creil, France.
The son of an Algerian construction worker and a stay-at-home mother, I grew up in a simple, modest home—far from glitz, yet never lacking anything—thanks to parents who always sacrificed to offer the best to their four boys. As a child, I heard my father leave for building sites every morning at six, in the cold or the rain, never complaining. That is likely when, without knowing it, I learned what work, sacrifice, and determination truly mean.
My father is a principled man, loved by all. Wherever I go, I hear: “Your father is a good man.” And it’s true. He helps everyone, always ready to lend a hand without expecting anything in return. From him, I inherited that generosity and the desire to be useful and reach out. A seed that, many years later, would lead me to create a humanitarian NGO.
In the early 1990s, I was in elementary school. Each class had to wait for its weekly slot to access a “new tool.” I remember, in front of me, this strange, noisy, fascinating block of technology: a computer. The internet did not yet exist. That day, a door opened in my mind. I was mesmerized by that source of light.
A few years later, in 1996, my father took my brothers and me to the supermarket. In the computer aisle, he stopped in front of a machine like the one I had seen at school. And without warning, he said: “We’re getting it.”
That day, he gave us our first computer. Few families in our neighborhood had one at the time. For me, it was more than a gift: it was a symbol of hope. That gesture—so true to who my father is—marked me forever.
At the end of middle school, when we were asked what jobs we envisioned to guide our studies, I answered without hesitation: “I want to work in computing.” But the guidance counselor cut me off: “No, that’s not for you. You have to be good at math.” That sentence hurt deeply. It was as if a door was closed before I could even knock. At that time, we had never heard of elite schools. I didn’t know what prestigious paths like HEC or Sciences Po were. We didn’t have those reference points. So, like many young people in my neighborhood, I followed the track laid out for us: a limited choice of fields that didn’t really allow us to dream or access rewarding careers.
I experienced it as an injustice. I was deprived of what I loved and truly wanted. I realized I would have to work twice as hard as others.
Instead of giving up—while others went out, partied, or enjoyed their youth—I stayed home, determined to do what I love. I spent my evenings, nights, and weekends in front of that computer. I disassembled, reassembled, tested, broke things, started again. It was my way of learning and understanding.
In the early 2000s, my father gave us another step into the future: our first internet subscription. I remember the sound of the modem, the endless connection time… and the immense excitement of discovering a new world. It was a second shock. I had never traveled like most kids from working-class neighborhoods; for the first time, I could connect to the world from my room.
That’s when I started creating my first projects and coding my first websites. What I loved was the magical idea of creating something from nothing. I didn’t need anyone’s permission. I could do it alone, freely, with my own means.
As I grew up, my passion for technology merged with another driving force: the desire to help others. Inspired by my father’s generosity and guided by the values of my Muslim faith, I wanted to unite those two forces.
In 2010, with friends from university, I founded "Ummah Charity," a humanitarian and development NGO to help disadvantaged populations around the world without distinction, carrying out sustainable actions in water, food, education, and emergency relief. I quickly built its website to facilitate online donations at a time when few organizations had gone digital. Success came immediately: we raised several million euros quickly. Leaders of other associations contacted me to understand how we did it.
It was at that moment that a new idea began to take shape in my mind: “What if I could help all organizations raise funds easily, not just my own?” From that reflection, CotizUp.com was born at the end of 2015, a fundraising platform open to everyone. I launched the company from scratch, with no financial support and just 1 euro in share capital. The goal: to democratize generosity and give everyone the means to take action. Once again, success quickly followed.
But entrepreneurship is never a calm river. CotizUp confronted me with many challenges, including finding a reliable payment service provider to manage our financial flows—one capable of meeting our requirements. After testing several, none truly fit our needs. So I did what I’ve always done: I built the solution myself.
This is how Klorie was born—a payment service provider designed to support ambitious platforms with transparency and efficiency.
And because I’ve always believed that success only makes sense if it’s shared, I decided to go further. I created Circum Capital, an investment fund dedicated to entrepreneurs who, like I once did, have ideas and energy but sometimes lack the resources to bring them to life. The goal: help them believe, build, and dare.
Nothing has ever been easy. When you take action, you never succeed without facing obstacles. Every success has come with its share of doubts, sleepless nights, moments of solitude, and mistakes. But each stage taught me something essential: nothing replaces perseverance and hard work.
I also owe much of my success to the values of my Muslim faith that have accompanied me since childhood: sharing, tolerance, and justice. I’ve always struggled to accept injustice—seeing some people left behind, ignored, or judged for who they are, what they think, where they come from, or what they believe. At a very young age, I understood the world could be harsh, unequal, sometimes unfair—and that my place wasn’t to remain a spectator, but to try, at my scale, to bring balance.
I love building bridges between people, cultures, and religions—reminding us that our differences don’t oppose us; they complete us. One conviction has never left me: the world needs bridges, not walls.
I deeply believe in living together, in the power of dialogue, and in the beauty of respect. This is the vision I anchor in each of my projects.
Today, I’m proud of who I am. I keep moving forward with the same energy, passion, and spark as that little boy in primary school, mesmerized by an old gray computer—the one who dreamed of creating, learning, and helping; the one who, without knowing it, already carried in his eyes the desire for a better world.
Everything I have become, I owe to my roots, my parents, my faith, and this deep conviction: we don’t always choose where we come from, but we always choose where we are going.