Before setting out for Marrakech, travellers waited for one man to load his animals first. This man, known as the aneflous, gave the signal for departures and halts. His very name evokes trust. In the accounts collected by Émile Laoust in the early twentieth century, this figure also appears at the beginning of agricultural work and other collective undertakings, where success depended as much on the actions performed as on the trust placed in the person who initiated them.

A caravan is gathering to make its way to Marrakech via the Tizi n-Tlouat pass, across the High Atlas. Merchants and travellers assemble around a man whose signal they await. Before anyone else loads their animals, he loads his own. When the caravan halts, he is the first to unload them, and the others follow his example.

Émile Laoust calls this man the aneflous n-umuddu. In Mots et choses berbères, published in 1920, the French linguist and ethnographer describes him as both a guide and a bringer of good fortune. Travellers believe him to possess baraka, a blessing that should enable them to pass safely through territories where they fear encountering bandits.

The detail is remarkable: the caravan is set in motion by the gesture of a single man, in whom all the others place their trust.

A word that speaks of trust

The very name aneflous sheds light on this figure’s role.

Laoust traces it to the Amazigh root FLS, associated with the notions of faith and trust. He cites, in particular, the verb efles, meaning ‘to have faith in, to trust’, and taflest, meaning ‘faith, trust’. He explicitly rejects any connection with the word flus, meaning ‘money’.

This linguistic relationship is also found in later studies. In his Dictionnaire des racines berbères communes, Mohand Akli Haddadou records the root FLS in connection with the notions of faith and trust. More recently, Miloud Taïfi, in his Dictionnaire raisonné berbère-français. Parlers du Maroc (2016), defines aneflus as an ‘honest, trustworthy person’.

Another meaning deserves attention. In his Cours de berbère marocain, published in 1921, Laoust also translates aneflous as ‘arbitrator’, deriving it from the verb fles, to trust.

This last definition opens up another perspective. An arbitrator is someone to whom people agree to entrust a decision or the resolution of a dispute. Their authority does not necessarily derive from force or imposed power, but from the confidence placed in their judgement.

This does not mean that the aneflous accompanying caravans exercised a judicial function. Laoust’s accounts do not allow us to make such a claim. But the relationship between these different meanings reveals a shared field of associations: the aneflous is, above all, a man who can be relied upon.

The man who ploughs the first furrow

To understand this figure, we must leave the caravan routes for a moment and turn to the fields.

Laoust recounts that in Addar, among the Ntifa, no farmer begins sowing his land until a man named Lehosain has inaugurated the work. The villagers gather in his field, together with the children, to witness this first act of cultivation. Only then does each farmer return to plough and sow his own plot.

This man is called amzwar, ‘the first’.

In Ras-el-Oued, the person entrusted with opening the ploughing season bears another name: aneflous. He is an elder, an aqdim, whom the farmers believe to possess a baraka favourable to the harvest and the rain. Here too, no one wishes to begin before him.

Laoust also records the presence of an aneflous who inaugurates the ploughing at Timgissin, in the territory of the Tlit, between the Jebel Bani and the Foum Zguid region.

These accounts reveal local variations, yet the same principle seems to connect them: the beginning of certain undertakings is entrusted to a person whose intervention inspires confidence and is expected to favour their success.

The first furrow is therefore more than an agricultural operation. It also marks the moment when a collective activity can begin.

Trust in the face of uncertainty

What farmers hope for in a good harvest, travellers hope for in a journey free from danger.

In both situations, the future remains uncertain. The rains may fail, the seeds may not germinate, travellers may encounter difficulties along the way. In the eyes of those who must face these risks, practical skill alone is not always enough to ensure the success of their undertaking.

The aneflous stands at this boundary between human action and uncertainty.

His baraka is not necessarily that of a saint. Laoust reports that certain individuals were believed to have received from God a particular gift for bringing success. Their presence reassured those embarking on an undertaking whose outcome could not be guaranteed.

This trust also has a very practical dimension. On the road to Marrakech, the aneflous directs the collective movement. He gives the signal to set off and the signal to stop. The other travellers follow his example when loading and unloading their animals.

Belief and practical organisation thus come together in a single figure, although Laoust’s account alone does not allow us to determine the precise extent of his authority.

Trust does not remove the need for action. On the contrary, it allows action to begin, giving each person the assurance that the others will follow.

The one who begins for others

Laoust’s note provides two further examples.

During a military expedition, an aneflous marches at the head of the fighters. He carries the standard and fires the first rifle shots. He is believed to possess a baraka capable of protecting him and favouring victory.

At large gatherings of singers from friendly tribes, another aneflous gives the signal for the singing to begin with his tambourine.

The opening gesture changes according to the circumstances. Here, a furrow; there, an animal loaded for the journey; elsewhere, a rifle shot or the first beat of a tambourine. In each of these examples, one individual performs an action that the others await before undertaking their own.

Laoust goes further in his interpretation. He imagines that these figures might be the heirs of ancient religious officiants, or even ‘agrarian kings’ whose rituals once ensured the prosperity of their communities. But this genealogy remains conjectural. Nothing in the accounts presented allows such a historical continuity to be demonstrated.

Nor is it possible to conclude that all Amazigh communities recognised an identical institution, or that the different functions described were performed by the same type of figure everywhere and at every period.

What Laoust allows us to glimpse is both more modest and more tangible: in certain contexts, a collective undertaking did not begin simply when everyone was ready. It awaited the intervention of a man recognised as having the capacity to lead the way.

And the etymology of the word lends these scenes a particular depth. Perhaps it is not because he begins that the others trust him, but because they trust him that they allow him to begin.

Explore all features in: The Berber world

• Partage / Share

• Facebook0
• Twitter0
• WhatsApp0
• Email0
• 0
• Facebook Messenger0
• SMS0
• Telegram0
• LinkedIn0
• Gmail0

Share your knowledge of the Amazigh world

Please enable JavaScript in your browser to complete this form.

Message Nom Name

Nom / Name *

E-mail *

Message

Envoyer / Send

More fragments from the Berber world

Tikirt: an Amazigh fortified city between splendour and oblivion

Yennayer, the Berber new year

The Idols of Taliza, two forgotten divinities of Ashura

The aneflous, a figure of trust among the Berbers

The Takchoulte, the goatskin water bag of Amazigh rural life

Ali the Hooded One, fugitive of the rain

Tachelhit, Tarifit and Tamazight: three languages or one?

The art of women’s hairstyles among the Aït Atta of southern Morocco

Tasgedlt: the mysterious citadel of the Christian princesses

It carried goods across the Sahara, accompanied pilgrimages and embodied patience. Yet the dromedary could also foretell death, carry away a town’s misfortunes or lend its feet to a feared supernatural creature. In Morocco’s folk beliefs, proverbs, songs and traditional arts, this familiar animal of the southern landscapes reveals a remarkably contradictory character.

A one-humped camel, master of the desert routes

Let us begin with a distinction: the camel featured in Moroccan traditions is the dromedary (Camelus dromedarius), a one-humped member of the camel family, unlike the Bactrian camel of Central Asia, which has two humps. The word camel nevertheless remains in everyday use in Morocco, and it is the term André Goldenberg employs in his Bestiaire de la culture populaire musulmane et juive au Maroc (Bestiary of Muslim and Jewish Folk Culture in Morocco), published in 2000.

The animal owes its reputation for endurance to its extraordinary adaptation to arid environments. Contrary to a widespread belief, its hump does not store water but a reserve of fat, which can be drawn upon when food is scarce. Its broad feet make it easier to move over soft ground, while its body is adapted to minimising water loss.

These qualities made the dromedary an essential part of Saharan history. For centuries, camel caravans linked the oases of southern Morocco to markets beyond the desert, carrying salt, textiles, precious goods and, in a trade whose violence must not be forgotten, enslaved people.

Rather than always crossing the Sahara in a single journey, animals and caravans often travelled from one oasis to another, relying on grazing grounds, water sources and the knowledge of experienced caravan drivers.

This close relationship with the animal explains its presence in languages, traditions and even place names. Goldenberg mentions Aïn Imel, meaning the camel’s spring, and Tizi n’Talghemt, the pass of the she-camel.

A providential animal bearing baraka

The dromedary occupies an important place in the Muslim religious imagination. The Qur’an itself presents livestock as one of the remarkable gifts of Creation:

Its material value thus goes hand in hand with its religious significance. A source of food, a mount and a beast of burden, the dromedary could also become a bearer of baraka, the beneficent spiritual power believed in popular tradition to protect people and favour healing or prosperity.

Goldenberg records several traditions in which the camel appears alongside saints or plays a protective role. In folk tales, a saint may even take the form of a camel to drive away evil spirits.

But this closeness to the sacred could also find expression in collective rituals, sometimes spectacular in nature.

Among the Aïssaoua and Hmadcha, Moroccan Sufi brotherhoods, certain participants in ceremonies once imitated the behaviour of camels. Goldenberg describes these figures, known as jmâl, who walked on all fours, grazed on thorny plants and reproduced the animal’s movements and attitudes.

The physical power of the dromedary thus became part of ritual performance, much like the lion, the jackal and other animals imitated in the practices of religious brotherhoods.

The camel that carried away human misfortunes

The dromedary’s protective role also appears in ancient rituals in which the animal was believed to drive away evil.

Goldenberg reports that, during epidemics, a camel would sometimes be led through a town before being killed: the animal was believed to absorb the misfortunes afflicting the community.

He also mentions camel sacrifices performed during certain moussems, religious and popular gatherings associated with the shrines of saints.

At the moussem of Moulay Brahim, in the High Atlas, members of the Marrakech tanners’ guild once led a camel through the city’s neighbourhoods before taking it to the saint’s shrine for sacrifice. According to the belief recorded, the animal carried away the sins of the city. Goldenberg notes that these rituals were still being practised in the 1980s.

The dromedary could thus symbolically take upon itself the evils of humankind, then disappear with them.

Another, even more unusual custom is mentioned at Tamkasselt, in the Drâa Valley between Agdz and Zagora. During Ashura, a long palm frond wrapped in palm fibres formed a swaying torch known as alghoum, the camel.

The animal was thus present even in the objects and gestures of popular celebrations.

Between bad omens and frightening creatures

Yet the camel’s baraka did not erase another, far more unsettling aspect of its character.

In certain traditional interpretations of dreams, a white camel foretold happiness. A black camel, by contrast, could be associated with death. The animal thus became a messenger of a destiny that the dreamer sought to decipher.

Its appearance could even be borrowed by supernatural beings.

Goldenberg recalls a version of the legend of Aïcha Kandicha, a feared jnniya, or female jinn, in Moroccan folklore. She appeared as an irresistibly beautiful woman, but her camel’s feet betrayed her true nature. Her beauty lured her victims before this animal feature revealed what she really was.

The dromedary, a protector in some beliefs, here becomes the sign of a deceptive human appearance, concealing a being from the unseen world.

This contrast reminds us how animals in folk traditions escape any single interpretation: the same creature may bring blessings and inspire terror.

A giant mocked in proverbs

The dromedary was not, however, always treated with reverence. In the Moroccan proverbs collected by Goldenberg, its power, size and apparent nobility readily lend themselves to mockery.

It would be hard to find a better image of someone incapable of recognising their own faults.

Elsewhere, the animal embodies an authority indifferent to others. The camel leading a caravan gives little thought to those walking behind it.

But proverbs also pay tribute to the experience of those who know their animals:

Behind this saying lies an entire philosophy of the relationship between humans and animals. The camel driver gives the orders, but cannot necessarily control the intentions of a creature reputed to be difficult.

Popular language could even turn the animal’s grandeur into an insult. Goldenberg notes that calling someone a “camel” or a “son of a camel” was considered a serious offence.

How could such a valuable animal become a symbol of stupidity or coarseness? Perhaps because people knew it well enough to admire its endurance without attributing every virtue to it. The dromedary, like its masters, had its faults.

The patience of caravan drivers, poetry and riddles

In contrast to this sometimes ridiculous or frightening figure, the dromedary becomes a lesson in patience in traditional songs.

A poem quoted by Goldenberg contrasts the horse’s haste with the camel’s slow, steady pace:

Here, success depends not on speed but on perseverance, a quality essential to long journeys through desert regions.

The Chants des caravaniers du Sous (Songs of the Caravan Drivers of the Sous) express another dimension of this existence. Caravan drivers possess neither the wealth of townspeople nor the comforts enjoyed by those who own gardens and houses. Their domain lies elsewhere:

In Amazigh oral tradition, the dromedary also becomes a character in riddles. Goldenberg quotes a riddle from the words of an ahouach, a collective poetic and musical tradition of the south-western Atlas: a camel suckling a hare. Behind this absurd image lies, according to the explanation recorded, the figure of the caïd, a local authority.

These poetic games remind us that the camel’s presence in popular languages extends far beyond the vocabulary of desert life. It also provides a way of speaking about people, power, virtues and shortcomings.

From rock engravings to the carpets of southern Morocco

The silhouette of the dromedary also runs through the visual arts.

It appears in North African rock art, particularly in the Anti-Atlas. Yet not all animal engravings belong to the same period: depictions of dromedaries are generally associated with the more recent historical phases of Saharan rock art, often described as Cameline or Libyco-Berber. They therefore postdate many prehistoric engravings of wild animals.

The animal also appears on carpets made by the Aït Ouaouzguite around Taznakht. Goldenberg reproduces several compositions in which camels, sometimes accompanied by their young, stand out in brightly coloured patterns. Its silhouette can also be found in embroidery, jewellery and certain khamsas, the protective hand-shaped amulets.

In the 1960s, children in Meski, near Erfoud, were still making camel figures from woven palm leaves, while other craftspeople produced figurines intended for travellers.

The animal even made its way into modern life. In 1978, the SATAS transport company, whose coaches served routes across southern Morocco, used a leaping dromedary as its emblem. Motorised transport had replaced the caravan, but the latter survived in the image chosen to represent the company.

From rock engravings to coach company logos, from carpets to riddles, the dromedary carried far more than the loads entrusted to it by caravan drivers.

A working animal and a sign of wealth, a figure of baraka and sacrifice, a model of patience but also an arrogant or comical character, it reflected the contradictions of the people who lived alongside it.

And perhaps that is what makes it so distinctive: in a world where it was indispensable, the dromedary did not need to be perfect to become legendary.

The practices and beliefs described here come from traditions recorded by Goldenberg, mainly through historical accounts and ethnographic sources. They should not be regarded as universally shared or necessarily still practised today. The proverbs and poetic extracts have been translated into English from the French versions reproduced in his book.

Explore all features in: The Berber world

• Partage / Share

• Facebook0
• Twitter0
• WhatsApp0
• Email0
• 0
• Facebook Messenger0
• SMS0
• Telegram0
• LinkedIn0
• Gmail0

Share your knowledge of the Amazigh world

Please enable JavaScript in your browser to complete this form.

Nom / Name *

Name Nom /

E-mail *

Message

Envoyer / Send

More fragments from the Berber world

Origin of the word Berber

Yaz, the Amazigh sign of the free man

Yennayer, the Berber new year

The root of dearth: a Berber testimony from the past

Tin Hinan, the legendary berber queen of the Tuareg

Tikirt: an Amazigh fortified city between splendour and oblivion

Tachelhit, Tarifit and Tamazight: three languages or one?

Taghonja, the Berber bride of rain

Why is the Amazigh year 950 years ahead?

A gazelle appeared on the path: should the traveller continue or turn back? In Moroccan folk beliefs, its movements could foretell good or bad fortune. But the gazelle also featured in fertility rituals, inspired poets, embodied the beauty of both women and men, and even lent its name to Jewish families. Behind its grace lay an entire world of meanings.

When the gazelle decided the course of a journey

Encountering a gazelle in the morning was considered a good omen. But if a traveller startled a herd, it was wise to watch carefully which way the animals fled: if they ran to the right, the journey promised to be favourable. If they ran to the left, it was better to abandon the trip. Even their number mattered: an odd number brought good luck, while an even number foretold the opposite.

These beliefs are recorded by André Goldenberg in his Bestiaire de la culture populaire musulmane et juive au Maroc (Bestiary of Muslim and Jewish Folk Culture in Morocco), published in 2000. They belong to a world in which a chance encounter with an animal could be interpreted as a warning. The natural world thus became a language through which people sought to read their destiny.

The gazelle held a special place in this world. A symbol of beauty and speed, it was also associated with fertility, protection and baraka, the beneficent spiritual power that folk tradition attributes to certain beings, places or objects.

In Alnif, milk for gazelles carved in stone

In the arid regions of southern Morocco, Goldenberg describes traditional practices linking the gazelle to fertility rituals and hopes for rain.

An account collected in 1973 from a man originally from Alnif describes a remarkable custom: at the beginning of Ennaïr, milk was poured over rock engravings depicting gazelles.

Ennaïr, whose name derives from the Latin Ianuarius, refers to the first month of the Julian calendar, long used in rural North African societies. It marks the renewal of the year and remains associated with the traditions of the agricultural calendar.

The connection is therefore far from insignificant: at the beginning of the year, milk, the quintessential symbol of nourishment, was offered to animals carved into the rock and associated with fertility.

Yet a mystery remains. Did this practice preserve an ancient belief, or had successive generations reinterpreted rock figures whose original meaning had long been forgotten? Nothing establishes a direct continuity between the people who made the engravings and the ritual recorded in 1973.

From the protected gazelle to the gazelle as protector

In folk tales, the gazelle is more than a sign to be interpreted. It sometimes becomes a character endowed with human qualities.

A legend associated with Sidi Ahmed Tijani (1737–1815), a Sufi master born in what is now Algeria and founder of the Tijaniyya order, which spread from Fez into West Africa, tells of a gazelle pursued by a falcon that sought refuge with the saint. He drove the predator away with a gesture, and the rescued animal remained by his side from then on.

Elsewhere, the roles are reversed. In a legend from south-western Morocco, a gazelle feeds a child abandoned in the forest, saving him from the dangers posed by wild animals. A song from the Chleuh (Tashelhit-speaking Amazigh) poetic tradition celebrates this episode:

The gazelle can thus be both a vulnerable creature seeking the protection of a saint and a maternal figure capable of saving a human life.

The gazelle, an image of beauty in women and men

But it is in songs and poetry that the gazelle truly reigns supreme. Its grace, its eyes, its slender figure and its swift flight make it a favourite image of beauty and romantic desire.

In melhoun, Morocco’s urban tradition of popular poetry, the beloved woman becomes a gazelle, and her gaze a formidable weapon:

Yet the comparison is not reserved for women. Goldenberg also reproduces verses in which a woman praises a man’s elegance, gentleness and agility:

The animal thus embodies qualities that can be attributed to both sexes. In Moroccan Arabic, ghzal and ghzala can also be used to describe a handsome man or a beautiful woman.

The linguist Paulette Galand-Pernet showed how the same Amazigh word, aznk°d, could refer to a marvellous gazelle in an ancient hunting poem and to a beautiful woman in a later reinterpretation. The words had changed little, but their meaning had shifted from the realm of the marvellous to that of love.

Gazelles in names, carpets and everyday objects

The gazelle has also left its mark on Moroccan Jewish surnames. The name Azencot, along with its many variants, has been linked to the Amazigh word azenkadh, meaning gazelle, although tribal or geographical origins are also possible.

Its silhouette appears in the crafts of south-eastern Morocco. Goldenberg reproduces a carpet made by the Aït Ouaouzguite, photographed in 1972 at a craft cooperative in Ouarzazate, on which several white gazelles stand out against a blue background. Representations of the animal’s horns, eyes or legs also appear in motifs used in jewellery, tattoos, pottery and textiles.

The image has even made its way into modern life: chocolate and soap labels, commercial brands, postage stamps and nature conservation campaigns have continued to make use of the animal’s distinctive silhouette.

From rock engravings to carpets, from songs to family names, the gazelle appears across very different traditions and periods. It would be misleading to assign a single meaning to all these representations.

Yet they all reveal the remarkable place a wild animal could occupy in the human imagination: a creature onto which people projected their fears, their hopes, their ideals of beauty and even their own destiny.

Explore all features in: The Berber world

• Partage / Share

• Facebook0
• Twitter0
• WhatsApp0
• Email0
• 0
• Facebook Messenger0
• SMS0
• Telegram0
• LinkedIn0
• Gmail0

Share your knowledge of the Amazigh world

Please enable JavaScript in your browser to complete this form.

Nom / Name *

Nom Message E-mail

E-mail *

Message

Envoyer / Send

More fragments from the Berber world

The Takchoulte, the goatskin water bag of Amazigh rural life

Yaz, the Amazigh sign of the free man

Tikirt: an Amazigh fortified city between splendour and oblivion

Ali the Hooded One, fugitive of the rain

Riddle and enigma: a game of the mind in Amazigh tradition

Yennayer, the Berber new year

The Idols of Taliza, two forgotten divinities of Ashura

Ahwach and Ahidous, the two amazigh dances of the moroccan Atlas

Why do Tuareg men veil their faces, while women do not?

The mausoleum of Moulay Yaâcoub, or Saint Jacob, is a tiny earthen funerary structure built at the foot of a rocky hill at the entrance to the village of Tazroute, near Ouarzazate. It stands along the path leading to the village of the Telmasla kasbah and to the old villages submerged beneath the waters of Lake El Mansour Eddahbi.

According to oral tradition, it houses the remains of a saint named Yaâcoub, or Jacob, whose origins are unknown. Local memory recalls that the shrine was venerated for many years by both Muslim and Jewish communities.

The shrine also bears witness to a shared religious heritage. In another account collected by the author, Ba Idar, a former resident of Telmasla, recalls how Muslims and Jews came to pay their respects to the same saint. The former called him Moulay Yaâcoub, while the latter knew him as Bardiîme. Two names for a single place of devotion, from a time when the two communities shared village life.

According to custom, women from neighbouring villages, or simply passing through, would stop at the foot of this wall to perform a ritual of intercession particular to women. They would slip small stones into the gaps between the stones of the wall, then entrust it with their laments and wishes, most often in the form of sung prayers.

As a child, I used to accompany my mother to her native village of Tazroute. These regular family visits filled me with joy, although the distance we had to cover on foot was exhausting. We walked more than three kilometres.

Further reading: The kasbah of Telmasla, as remembered by its elders

I remember, as though it were yesterday, the women along that dirt track, worn into the ground by countless footsteps. They were always walking, carrying a basket, a bowl balanced on their heads, a bundle of grass or a child strapped to their backs. Others were bent beneath the weight of water jars they had to carry for hours on end. Mothers brought along their thin children, dressed in endlessly patched clothes, with tufts of hair standing like crests on their shaved, sun-weathered heads.

My mother never failed to perform the ritual of praying beside the wall of Moulay Yaâcoub, like the other women pilgrims who came, from morning until night, to pour out their sorrows before the saint, as though seeking to lay down their burning, secret grief.

For all these women, this place was a refuge. In moments of despair, they would implore the saint, clinging to the profound hope that he might bring them relief.

I can still see them murmuring a litany of barely audible, indistinct words, their hands resting gently against the wall. Then tongues would loosen and hearts would open.

Had all these women come to mourn the passing of their days and their hopes, each entrusting her misfortunes to these silent walls? So many tears have fallen here, like drops of an endless, silent rain. They still echo through time, deep within the wells of our memories.

Some of these women have passed away, others have grown old. And I too have aged with the passing seasons. Yet through all those years, I have kept these childhood memories alive.

As in days gone by, I recently returned to visit these crumbling walls, hoping to revive this fragment of my roots.

I recognised the familiar face of one of those women, although now deeply lined with wrinkles, her body bent by old age. This faithful neighbour of Moulay Yaâcoub’s final resting place confided in me in turn:

Moulay Yaâcoub, the confidant, the protector, the saviour, the healer, the miracle worker… yet also a simple earthen ruin, standing stubbornly at the foot of the rock. Our mothers had entrusted him with their most intimate secrets, those kept hidden in amulets and other talismans. Their hearts still slumber there.

Against these walls they wept, and their tears still flow, as though their overflowing were a sunset.

Abdeljalil Didi

A native of Ouarzazate, Abdeljalil Didi has been actively involved in community life for more than twenty years, with a particular focus on local development. He contributes to the web magazine sudestmaroc.com, sharing stories about the life of South-East Morocco’s territories and their collective memory. He also supports young people in their education through a dedicated space offering guidance, encouragement and opportunities for personal development.

• Partage / Share

• Facebook57
• Twitter167
• WhatsApp168
• Email86
• 0
• Facebook Messenger168
• SMS166
• Telegram168
• LinkedIn165
• Gmail164

More to Explore

Ksar of Tamnougalt: the stronghold of the caïds of the Drâa Valley

The berber fibula: between tradition and symbol

Fint Oasis: a secluded valley on the doorstep of Ouarzazate

Collected in the early 1980s among the Aït Ayyach communities of the Upper Moulouya, around Midelt, twenty Amazigh proverbs speak of caution, effort, mutual support and wastefulness. Behind their few words emerges a world of flocks, seeds, bees, sieves, bendirs and pottery: images rooted in a particular territory, yet capable of saying far more than they appear to tell.

The proverb: experience condensed into a few words

Proverbes berbères is a collective work published under the direction of Fernand Bentolila, a linguist and professor of general linguistics at Paris-René Descartes University, specialising in particular in the description of the Amazigh varieties spoken in central Morocco. The book brings together several regional collections of proverbs recorded in Morocco, accompanied by their transcriptions, French translations and commentaries.

In his introduction, Bentolila emphasises one essential point: a proverb does not live solely on the pages of a collection. Its true place is in everyday use and exchange.

In just a few words, it becomes possible to offer advice, criticise, warn or take a stand without having to develop a lengthy argument. The proverb draws its authority from experience passed down and shared. It allows words that seem to come from long ago to be applied to a new situation.

Its strength also lies in its form. A proverb may play on rhythm, repetition, metaphor, humour or an enigmatic image. Bentolila even draws a parallel between the proverb and the riddle: both readily take objects and realities from everyday life and make them express something else.

A bee then speaks of effort. A flock teaches caution. A sieve reminds us that not everything can serve every purpose. A broken jug becomes a lesson against waste.

But some of these images only reveal their full meaning when we understand the world from which they emerged.

The Aït Ayyach, between Midelt and the Upper Moulouya

Twenty proverbs associated with the Aït Ayyach communities of the Upper Moulouya appear in the collection. They were recorded in 1982 and 1983 by Najem-eddine Soughati and Youssef Aït Lemkadem. The Aït Ayyach are also known as the Aït Ayyach of Midelt.

These communities traditionally depend mainly on agriculture and the rearing of sheep and cattle. Their territory lies in the Moulouya valley, around Midelt, between the High Atlas and the Middle Atlas.

The speech of the Aït Ayyach belongs to the Tamazight of central Morocco.

This is the shortest of the eight collections brought together in Proverbes berbères. Yet it is enough to show just how closely a proverb can be connected to the environment in which it circulates. The soil, frost, animals, food and household objects are not mere background details: they provide the images through which human behaviour is understood.

A selection of Aït Ayyach proverbs

“Shearing before May means slaughtering the flock.”

Here, the proverb springs directly from pastoral experience.

In the Upper Moulouya, frost can still occur late in the year. Shearing sheep too early therefore exposes them to the cold.

But the warning soon extends beyond the flock: one must know when to wait before acting, and avoid making an irreversible decision too hastily.

The cold of the Upper Moulouya thus becomes a lesson in caution.

“White soil needs plenty of seed.”

Poor soil requires more seed than fertile land. Not every seed will germinate, so the chances of success must be multiplied.

The proverb transforms this agricultural observation into a much broader principle: when conditions are difficult, a single effort may not be enough.

The expression is brief, but behind it lie the soil, the sowing season and a whole body of practical knowledge of the environment.

“Whoever wants honey must endure the bees’ stings.”

The meaning of the image is almost immediate: what is desirable may come at a price.

In the commentary accompanying the collection, honey represents what one seeks to obtain; the stings represent the difficulties one must accept in order to achieve it.

The strength of the proverb lies precisely in this economy of words: there is no need to explain at length that success sometimes requires effort. The bee and the honey are enough.

“Legs cannot carry an empty stomach.”

The stomach nourishes the legs; the legs carry the stomach.

The authors see in this relationship an image of reciprocity: when one element ceases to fulfil its function, the whole becomes unbalanced.

A simple observation of the body thus becomes a way of speaking about relationships between people: one cannot continually receive without giving, nor ask without offering something in return.

“Donkey skin is no good for a bendir drumhead.”

The bendir is a drum whose membrane must be sufficiently thin and supple to produce the desired sound. Donkey skin is unsuitable for this purpose.

The proverb thus reminds us that merely occupying a position does not mean one is capable of fulfilling its function. The authors apply it particularly to those who are unable to uphold the reputation of a group or family.

Behind the social judgement remains a concrete image: an instrument only sounds right when its material is suited to its purpose.

“You cannot draw water with a sieve.”

The image seems almost absurd — and that is precisely what gives it its force.

A sieve has holes because it is designed to sift flour. Asking it to hold water would mean ignoring its very nature and purpose.

The commentary in the collection extends this obvious truth to human roles: every task requires particular abilities.

The most ordinary object thus becomes a small lesson in the need for a person to be suited to the function they are expected to perform.

“Just because your father is a potter doesn’t mean you should break the jugs.”

Someone who possesses something in abundance might be tempted to stop recognising its value. A potter’s son might break the jugs, knowing that more can easily be made.

The proverb says exactly the opposite: abundance does not justify waste.

And once again, no abstraction is needed. A trade, a father and a few jugs are enough to make the lesson clear.

A territory transformed into language

These proverbs show how a language transforms a familiar environment into images capable of moving from one situation to another.

Shearing sheep comes to speak of haste. Poor soil speaks of perseverance. Honey and bees speak of effort. The sieve speaks of individual abilities. Pottery speaks of waste.

Perhaps this is where part of the proverb’s power lies: in beginning with an intensely local reality to express an experience that can be understood by people living far from the place where the saying first emerged.

Explore all features in: The Berber world

• Partage / Share

• Facebook0
• Twitter0
• WhatsApp0
• Email0
• 0
• Facebook Messenger0
• SMS0
• Telegram0
• LinkedIn0
• Gmail0

Share your knowledge of the Amazigh world

Please enable JavaScript in your browser to complete this form.

/ E-mail Name

Nom / Name *

E-mail *

Message

Envoyer / Send

More fragments from the Berber world

The luzia: when chance shared out the meat

Bilmawen : the Berber carnival spirit of Morocco

Tasgedlt: the mysterious citadel of the Christian princesses

Why is the Amazigh year 950 years ahead?

The aneflous, a figure of trust among the Berbers

Why do Tuareg men veil their faces, while women do not?

The Takchoulte, the goatskin water bag of Amazigh rural life

Ali the Hooded One, fugitive of the rain

Tin Hinan, the legendary berber queen of the Tuareg

On a mat, pieces of meat have already been arranged into portions. No one will choose their own. A small stick, a stone and chance will decide. In Mots et choses berbères, Émile Laoust described this ancient communal practice known as luzia in 1920, a custom in which sharing meat also meant organising trust between people.

A small stick to prevent disputes

The animal has been bought jointly, slaughtered and cut up. The butcher has prepared the portions, taking into account the number of people in each household. The tripe has been prepared separately.

When everything is ready, he calls out:

Each person has a marker they can recognise: a small stone or a piece of wood, either long or short.

One man stands apart, his eyes closed. The markers are mixed together, then placed one by one on the portions.

No one can therefore point to the piece they would prefer.

Laoust himself explains the reason for this procedure: in this way, “all disputes are avoided”.

In the luzia, chance does not replace fair sharing: it protects it. The portions have already been prepared; the drawing of lots simply prevents personal preference from giving rise to suspicion.

Buying together before the money has been paid

But sharing the meat is only part of the arrangement.

Even before the animal is purchased, the seller demands that one man act as guarantor for the entire group. Laoust calls him the damen.

The guarantor gives his word. He takes responsibility for the others’ payments and, when the agreed deadline arrives, goes from house to house collecting the money.

It may even happen that the meat has long since been eaten while some portions remain unpaid for. Anyone experiencing difficulties then asks the damen to wait until the next market, where they hope to sell something to settle their debt.

Behind the meat, a system of trust

The luzia might seem to be nothing more than an old way of buying an animal collectively.

Laoust’s account reveals much more.

The seller must be able to trust someone. The households must be consulted. The portions must be prepared fairly. Chance rules out personal preferences. And the guarantor carries the debt until payment is made.

Through a few pieces of meat laid out on a mat, an entire system of social relationships comes into view.

The ceremonial form described by Laoust largely belongs to the past. Yet in some parts of Morocco, the collective purchase and sharing of meat still exist today in simpler forms.

The mat, the little sticks and the drawing of lots have sometimes disappeared.

The need to come to an agreement, to share — and to trust one another — remains very much alive.

Further reading: The luzia: buying together, sharing meat and keeping one’s word.

Explore all features in: The Berber world

• Partage / Share

• Facebook0
• Twitter0
• WhatsApp0
• Email0
• 0
• Facebook Messenger0
• SMS0
• Telegram0
• LinkedIn0
• Gmail0

Share your knowledge of the Amazigh world

Please enable JavaScript in your browser to complete this form.

Name / Nom

Nom / Name *

E-mail *

Message

Envoyer / Send

More fragments from the Berber world

The Takchoulte, the goatskin water bag of Amazigh rural life

The berber fibula: between tradition and symbol

Why is the Amazigh year 950 years ahead?

The aneflous, a figure of trust among the Berbers

Riddle and enigma: a game of the mind in Amazigh tradition

The root of dearth: a Berber testimony from the past

Ahwach and Ahidous, the two amazigh dances of the moroccan Atlas

Yaz, the Amazigh sign of the free man

Tin Hinan, the legendary berber queen of the Tuareg

From the Sphinx of ancient Greece to riddles told during evening gatherings in Europe or Africa, human societies everywhere have delighted in concealing a familiar reality behind a few mysterious words. The Amazigh world is no exception. Yet enigmas and riddles are not merely games for passing the time: they teach people to observe, to use language skilfully and to see the world around them differently.

Riddle and enigma: two different forms of wordplay

A distinction can be drawn between the two terms. Moroccan linguist and philologist Abdellah Bounfour, in his study of Tamazight poetic genres included in the Encyclopédie berbère, distinguishes the riddle from the enigma according to three criteria: the function of the game, those who practise it, and its literary form.

The riddle is primarily a game of encoding and decoding: a familiar reality is described indirectly, and the listener must discover what lies behind the image. In Bounfour’s classification, it belongs mainly to the world of children and generally takes a prose form.

The enigma, by contrast, gives greater importance to the aesthetic quality and complexity of its formulation. It is an adult game, sometimes practised by accomplished poets, and takes a verse form. Bounfour sums up this final criterion unequivocally:

This distinction is by no means absolute throughout the Amazigh world: terminology varies from region to region, and authors themselves have not always used the terms in exactly the same way. It does, however, show that we are dealing with several forms of verbal play rather than a single genre. A recent anthology of Berber poetry also points out that the genre of tiɣuniwin — the enigma — remains poorly documented and that classifications of Amazigh poetic genres are not always agreed upon.

The riddle: hiding what everyone knows

Among the Ayt Merghad of South-Eastern Morocco, Ahmed Skounti, professor of anthropology, collected a body of tineẓẓra — riddles transmitted in Tamazight — in the early 1990s.

One of them simply says:

The image refers to the nomadic tent: the two upright poles supporting it become two young girls, while the long ridge pole takes on the features of the old man. Skounti himself uses this riddle again when describing the architecture of the tent.

The entire mechanism of the riddle is contained in these few words. Someone familiar with the tent sees its components every day; yet language transforms them until, for a moment, they become strange.

What is already known must suddenly be looked at differently.

The Encyclopédie berbère emphasises this close relationship between riddles and everyday life: the home, the human body, water, the sun, animals and familiar objects provide much of their imagery. The evening gathering thus becomes both a form of entertainment and a way of testing a child’s ability to recognise their own environment when it is presented indirectly.

The enigma: when language becomes a knot

With the enigma in the strict sense, the game moves into another register.

Émile Laoust had already recorded, in his Cours de berbère marocain, a formula used among the Ayt Ndhir: qqenx-ac, “I close it for you”, to introduce more complex enigmas using veiled expressions. His book in fact devotes several pages to these forms of wordplay.

The expression would later acquire particular significance in the study of Amazigh oral literature. Abdellah Bounfour links qqenx-ac with tiɣuniwin, the plural of taɣuni, “the act of knotting, of closing”. The image is striking: posing an enigma means closing or knotting language so that someone else may try to open it again.

Laoust also collected forms closer to the riddle. One begins:

The answer is a letter.

Another says:

The answer is a shadow.

These two examples still belong to the riddle: a familiar reality is concealed behind an image that has to be deciphered. With the versified enigma, however, the game becomes more elaborate.

These few examples also show why the boundary between genres must be handled with care. Laoust was primarily recording living forms of language and oral literature; later analysis gradually drew a clearer distinction between the prose riddle and the more elaborate, versified enigma practised by adults.

In the latter, it is no longer simply a matter of hiding an object behind an ingenious comparison. The composition itself matters: language becomes part of the game. The riddle primarily asks us to find; the enigma also invites us to admire the way in which the answer has been concealed.

Learning to think through play

There is nothing exclusively Amazigh about these games.

In many societies with strong oral traditions, riddles combine entertainment, learning and knowledge of the surrounding world. An ethnographic study among the Guji of Ethiopia, for example, shows children using riddles both to play together and to learn how to observe their social and natural environment.

The references vary from one culture to another. Here it may be a tent; elsewhere a plant, an animal, a tool or a natural phenomenon. Yet the mechanism is remarkably universal: take something everyone knows, conceal it behind another image, and challenge someone else’s intelligence to recognise it.

This is already what the riddle of the Sphinx does when it transforms the stages of human life into a creature that walks successively on four, two and then three legs.

Amazigh tradition adds a particularly evocative metaphor: the knot.

Language knots reality. It is for the listener to untie it.

Explore all features in: The Berber world

• Partage / Share

• Facebook0
• Twitter0
• WhatsApp0
• Email0
• 0
• Facebook Messenger0
• SMS0
• Telegram0
• LinkedIn0
• Gmail0

Share your knowledge of the Amazigh world

Please enable JavaScript in your browser to complete this form.

Nom / Name *

E-mail *

Message Name Nom

Message

Envoyer / Send

More fragments from the Berber world

Tachelhit, Tarifit and Tamazight: three languages or one?

Tin Hinan, the legendary berber queen of the Tuareg

The art of women’s hairstyles among the Aït Atta of southern Morocco

Tikirt: an Amazigh fortified city between splendour and oblivion

Tifinagh: a symbol of Amazigh culture through the ages

The luzia: when chance shared out the meat

The root of dearth: a Berber testimony from the past

The aneflous, a figure of trust among the Berbers

Why do Tuareg men veil their faces, while women do not?

In the 1960s, as a child in Ouarzazate, Driss Boukili El Hassani would set out with his companions towards the caves of Tazakhte, then surrounded by stories, fears and mysteries. Here he recalls those walks, those explorations and a place that became one of the inner landscapes of his childhood.

I remember the happy days of my childhood in Ouarzazate, with the companions of those years, whom I can still see as though the past had suddenly come back to life.

It was the 1960s.

To the north, the hill where the offices of the governor of Ouarzazate then stood, still known as “the Redoubt”, as it had been during the French Protectorate, overlooked a few small neighbourhoods clustered together like a village. This was the centre of Ouarzazate, crossed by a single avenue.

Further south, the Drâa Valley fascinated us with its splendour, its banks covered with date palms and green gardens. The avenue and the valley formed two parallel axes running across the hills and rocky ridges of Ouarzazate.

Beside the emerging town centre, a vast plateau served as a take-off and landing ground for small aircraft. It was the airport. As children, we felt a certain pride at seeing, so close to us, real aeroplanes that had come from elsewhere to our own place.

Far away on the horizon, an imposing hill could be seen. It appeared so blurred that it might have been mistaken for a mirage. This was Tazakhte, with its cavities cut into its arid walls, to which our imagination gave an almost ageless antiquity and the story of inhabitants who had disappeared long ago.

Tazakhte left a mythical imprint on our collective memory. It was a place around which fantastic stories and fabulous beliefs were woven.

The origin of its name is unknown. A source of endless unanswered questions, the mere mention of it filled us with both fear and wonder, and its deep caverns were naturally a place of adventure for minds hungry for mystery.

We were children then. Ramadan was not, for us, a month of religious rituals, fasting and prayer. It was the precious time for discovering these strange and unknown places.

In groups of friends, we often set out for Tazakhte, and it was clearly a way of asserting our courage, a kind of bravado in the face of the unknown.

The place seemed frozen in time, immersed in an almost unchanging silence. To us, it surely had to be inhabited by djinns, those supernatural beings said to inhabit underground worlds.

Before crossing its threshold, we bowed down in reverence

We would set out on foot to discover Tazakhte, braving the scorching heat to cover the few kilometres that separated us from our destination, wearing makeshift plastic sandals that were nevertheless sturdy, crossing rocks and hills, crushing wild plants such as harmal beneath our feet, overturning stones and sending golden scorpions fleeing from our path.

As soon as we reached the valley of the Oued El-Maleh and Tazakhte drew closer, a terrible anxiety would seize us. Yet we pretended to be brave, trying to overcome our fear and continue on our way with confidence.

The entrance to the cave was a low, horizontal slit. Before crossing its threshold, we bowed down in reverence. Then we crawled inside, entering this frightening world that seemed to swallow us whole. We moved deeper into the bowels of the place, our bodies covered with dust and scraping against the stones.

This journey through the dark maze increased our anxiety. Yet we stubbornly continued to push forward into the darkness. A frightening silence reigned, broken from time to time by the voices and whispers of our companions.

At last, a glimmer of light brought hope to our hearts. That faint glow gradually dispersed the oppressive darkness and guided us further into the depths of the cave. Damp chambers appeared before our eyes. Galleries whose shapes seemed to have been carefully drawn by the rock itself, as though rooted in the earth. Rudimentary rooms had been arranged at the far end, beneath a vast black veil resembling a flock of crows.

This legendary cave brought each of us back to a foetal state. It was as though Mother Earth were giving birth to us anew. She subjected us to the test of adapting and surviving within our surroundings.

Then we climbed back towards the azure-blue sky like the leaves of a fragile plant. We jostled against one another like the buds of a rose, determined and full of enthusiasm, eager to enjoy this moment of joy to the full.

The ritual of returning to the earth

With the innocence of childhood, this pilgrimage to Tazakhte during Ramadan was like a ritual return to the earth. Our bodies covered in its dust and rubbed against its gravel, we experienced it as though the earth were tenderly welcoming us back into its embrace.

This passion for going to Tazakhte in a spirit of almost contemplative devotion freed us forever from the fear of the unknown and of invisible worlds. We entered into communion with this strange and unfathomable space, which revealed to us its own language, made of shapes, scents and colours that we endlessly questioned in wonder. Tazakhte stirred contradictory feelings within us, sharpening in us a romantic temperament and a taste for surrealism.

Tazakhte, this Platonic cave, still defies oblivion today and resists the failings of memory. It still stands there, forever enchanting, with its unexplored secrets preserved in its galleries and tunnels since time immemorial, and still capable of awakening in every visitor a thousand and one questions that will remain unanswered.

My Driss Boukili El Hassani

• Partage / Share

• Facebook37
• Twitter185
• WhatsApp183
• Email93
• 0
• Facebook Messenger187
• SMS185
• Telegram185
• LinkedIn185
• Gmail185

More to Explore

The living heritage of the Gnawa of Lalla Mimouna

Taghonja, the Berber bride of rain

Troubadour, I have set out on the path of my ancestor