Discovering the Berbers of Morocco

Berbers of the mountains

A boulder by the trail is emblazoned in crimson, depicting three feathered brushstrokes, as if painted by the wind howling around us. Roughly, the symbol resembles a man reaching towards the sky.

Badr and Mohammad, our local hiking guides, await patiently for the rest of our group. “What does this symbol mean?” I ask.

“It means freedom,” explains Mohammad, adjusting the colorful scarf around his forehead. “It’s the sign of the Berber people; it’s on our flag,” adds Badr.

Leaning against a rock to massage my aching thighs, I recall how we had just descended from the summit of Toubkal, North Africa’s tallest mountain. Badr and Mohammad had guided us up the steep slopes in the middle of the night, allowing us to reach the summit in time to witness the breathtaking sunrise over the horizon, illuminating the craggy peaks of the Atlas.

The rest of the group catches up, now gathered around the mysterious symbol.

“The Berber flag is split into three colors,” Mohammad explains, retrieving a bag of peanuts. “Blue for the Berbers by the sea, yellow for the Berbers in the desert, and green for the Berbers of the mountains.”

As we walk, the strain of the hike feels once-in-a-lifetime for us, while Badr and Mohammad seem unfazed, trekking to the summit at least twice a week. The terrain eases as we descend into the verdant cusp of the valley. Farmers herd goats about the fields, with the animals grazing lazily under the sparse shade of juniper trees.

I inquire again about the symbol that signifies freedom.

“It’s not just Berbers who are free. It’s Moroccans, Arabs – it’s for all people,” Badr replies.

“But what defines your freedom?” I ask.

“What makes you not free?” he grins in response.

As a train of mules, adorned in technicolor fabrics, passes us by, Badr reiterates, “To answer your question, you must tell me your definition of freedom. Each person has their own.”

Unable to find a definition, I turn the question back to him. He ponders for a moment.

“To work, but not too much. To have time for myself, for my friends, and my family. That is all.”

Now at an easy plateau, a nearby village with its apple orchards and the sound of singing schoolchildren would soon greet us.

Badr’s questions linger in my mind like baklava. What makes you not free? What does freedom truly mean? I ponder what I can learn about freedom from the Berbers, the “free people” of Morocco.

Berbers of the sea

In the fishing town of Essaouira, I encounter the symbol again. I spot it in a music shop, inked on the membrane of a snare drum decorated with various Berber signs. Hajji, the shopkeeper, picks up the drum and begins tapping a rhythm.

“Play it like this,” he instructs, passing the drum. “Like a horse trotting. Chk-a-chk-a chk-a-chk-a. Yes, that’s right.”

As he plays a deep, hypnotic trance of Gnawa music on his guitar, the rich, warm notes fill the room, creating an atmosphere reminiscent of dancing flames.

When I inquire about the curious signs embellishing the drum, Hajji shrugs, explaining that they are ancient Berber symbols. “I can’t tell you what they mean, but I know someone who can.”

Wandering through the medina, I discover Younes at his workshop, tucked away in a corner. He is calligraphing a goat-hide canvas, meticulously tracing the elegant hooks and curves of Arabic script. The walls are adorned with cured animal skins, showcasing artworks comprising the intriguing symbols I encountered in the music shop. Younes explains that these signs are derived from the traditional face tattoos of the Berber women in his community.

“I have always been curious about the symbols when I was younger. Yet, today, fewer and fewer people understand their meanings,” he shares with a bittersweet smile.

The threat to Berber culture is indeed real. The written form of the Berber language, Tifinagh, has largely fallen out of use. Despite some efforts to reintroduce the alphabet in schools, the language’s future remains uncertain. Increasingly, Berber people face pressure to abandon their nomadic lifestyles in favor of modern living.

“People move to the city, get cell phones, and forget their way of life,” Younes elaborates.

I begin to wonder—does this transition come at the cost of culture, and ultimately, of freedom?

Younes smiles knowingly. “Freedom is not a place or time. It’s something deeper; it’s in our philosophy, it’s in our way of breathing,” he pauses, savoring his coffee. He gestures toward a symbol on the canvas that resembles an anchor.

“This,” he explains with enthusiasm, “represents the fusion of Arabic and Berber cultures. There is freedom in unity and togetherness. The jacket I’m wearing was made in Italy. Next year, I might wear one made in France. We may change our clothes, but it’s still us.”

“And what does freedom mean to you?” I ask.

Younes chuckles. “This is not an easy question. The sign on our flag simply means ‘be free.’ It is a general idea, a way of being. For me, being free means knowing that nobody can choose our place. Only we can make ourselves happy.”

Pointing to another symbol—a rising sun and a key—he explains, “These represent the happiness and prospects of tomorrow, and the keys to unlock them. Freedom also involves doing something for someone without expecting anything in return.”

Next, he gestures to a symbol resembling a cat with a crescent-shaped head. “You likely noticed many cats around the medina. People feed them and care for them without expecting anything. Love is unconditional.”

Finally, he points to a symbol that looks like musical notes. “This represents three women dancing. It signifies ‘be in the moment.’ You never know what might happen next. To be free, you must be present in the now.” Younes finishes his coffee, and I am left pondering the depth of his words.

“And you? What does freedom mean for you?” he follows up.

Once more, I find myself without an answer.

Berbers of the desert

Beyond the oasis town of M’Hamid, there lies only the endless sea of the Sahara. As the sun sets, the sand transforms into a deep reddish hue beneath a magenta sky, enclosing the town in a fiery embrace. Light and shadow dance in the contours of the terrain, embodying a perfect duality.

Here, I meet Aziz, my Saharan guide, at his home—the last house before the great expanse of desert. Aziz and his family are among the last Saharan nomads, having roamed the sand for generations, herding livestock and moving with the seasons.

Warmly, Aziz pours us customary cups of Moroccan mint tea. We sit in the kitchen, sipping the sweet, warm drink and discussing desert life.

“Time doesn’t exist there. I don’t even know when I was born!” he laughs. “My mother thinks it was September; my sister believes it was January.”

With mixed feelings, Aziz shares memories of life in the desert. He and his family were forced to leave their nomadic lifestyle a decade ago.

“Survival became increasingly difficult. The Algerian border tightened. If some of our camels wandered across the border at night, we couldn’t retrieve them,” he reflects, refilling our glasses as the tea cascades into our cups. “I believe borders shouldn’t exist. Anywhere.”

Looking towards the Sahara, it seems absurd that such an unbroken expanse could be sliced by boundaries at all.

“The second reason we moved,” he continues, “was the drying up of the Draa River.”

Aziz explains that the river ceased flowing due to a dam built in Ouarzazate, making life for desert nomads increasingly challenging.

“Eventually, it just became too much.”

The next day, Aziz shows me where the Draa should be. All that remains are ripples in the sand. Few families maintain a pastoral life in the desert today. With unique survival skills, Aziz fears his generation could be the last.

“What does it mean to be a nomad who is no longer nomadic?” I ask.

“My parents and grandparents feel imprisoned. They long for the desert. If I show my mother pictures from the Sahara, she remembers exactly where they were taken,” he says with a fond smile. “I sometimes take her back to visit.”

“And despite abandoning your way of life, can you still feel free?” I press.

“We try to stay independent. We avoid banks, and most of us don’t vote. We resist control. I have an uncle now living in France with a French wife, who visited as a tourist. He remains free, despite not living in the desert. Freedom is fundamentally shaped by one’s mindset. Not worrying too much about the future, but enjoying today.”

That night, beneath a sky as dark as molasses, we sit in tranquil silence, the only sound being the gurgling of the shared shisha.

“If you had the chance to return to living in the desert, would you?” I break the quiet.

“Yes,” he answers without hesitation. “Yes, I would.”

Aziz offers me the shisha mouthpiece, and I inhale the sweet smoke, letting it fill my lungs. The glowing charcoals remind me of the brilliant desert sunset. I recall Badr’s initial question that caught me off guard in the Atlas Mountains, “What makes you not free?”

My mind wanders back to the definitions shared among my fellow hikers. Their responses echoed themes of constraints— the grind of daily life, debt, and urban stressors creating confinement.

Lasting reflections

My final days in Morocco are spent with a Berber family along the Hāhā coast. The village starkly contrasts urban life—a simple cluster of stone houses with goats and donkeys meandering lazily in the sun. Overlooking the swelling ocean with tree-speckled cliffs tracing the coast offers a serene backdrop.

Accompanied by Mohammad, I stroll along the beach with his three pet rescue goats trailing behind us, leaving hoof prints in the sand.

“We have nearly nothing,” Mohammad states sincerely. “For instance, I don’t possess your passport. Yet if I fixate solely on that, I’d only cry and remain perpetually unhappy.”

Mohammad and his family showcase Moroccan hospitality, greeting me like a long-lost relative, teaching me to cook traditional fish tajine, and taking me to watch a breathtaking sunset over the coast. Through these experiences, it becomes clear that freedom transcends material possessions. I finally find the answer to Badr’s question—there’s only one barrier between myself and freedom: me.