Growing up in Amizmiz, a small market town one hour drive South of Marrakesh, I spent much of my childhood in the foothills of the High Atlas Mountains. Sitting on top of the car driving from village to village; riding a donkey up the Anougal valley; climbing the olive trees; cracking walnuts with rocks by an irrigation stream; sitting on the floor of a kitchen peeling carrots for a tagine; eating freshly baked tuneert bread dipped in home pressed olive oil; watching as women sat round a loom weaving brightly coloured wools in between its strings. This is a way of life which is slowly being eroded by the pressures of the modern age, catalysed by the recent 6.8 magnitude earthquake which shook the very foundations of these communities.
The earthquake hit at 11:11pm on September the 8th, its epicentre estimated to be high in the mountains south of Amizmiz. The initial tremor lasted around twenty seconds, followed by multiple aftershocks in the coming days. Our neighbours described being thrown violently – one said it felt as if a bomb had gone off, while another likened it to a ship being dashed repeatedly against a rocky shore. The old section of the town, Sourjdid, was hit the hardest, houses collapsing into piles of rubble, while those that were still standing were balanced precariously, bringing to mind a dangerous game of Jenga. Due to the late hour, when the earthquake hit, most people were in their homes, their confusion compounded by the darkness and clouds of dust, as some dug with their hands to find relatives, while others fled to the surrounding fields to get away from the collapsing walls. One friend described watching their neighbours’ children emerge miraculously from the rubble of their collapsed house, standing with them as they cried for their parents who had been out that evening. After a few hours, their parents were found and the family were reunited, homeless but alive. Many were not so fortunate.
The scale of the destruction sunk in as chilling videos emerged of Spanish search and rescue teams, their sniffer dogs searching silently amongst the rubble of in the town of Imi N’tala looking for any signs of life. The village where I first learned how to build a dam had been completely destroyed, with over 120 people dead and the very few survivors torn apart by unbearable grief. Hearing response teams coming back and listing off names of villages – destroyed, standing, destroyed, destroyed, unharmed – ‘only three dead’ became a relief as the death toll climbed. A seemingly random pattern of unfathomable destruction emerged as I struggled to conjure images, connecting familiar names with faces, homes, and memories.
The location of the epicentre means that the worst affected people have been some of Morocco’s most vulnerable. Commonly known as Berbers, a term considered by many to be derogatory, the Ishelhayn are the indigenous Amazight people of the High Atlas Mountains. Predominantly agricultural, they are scattered across the mountains in a network of interconnected villages and speak Tachelhayt, a dialect local to the High Atlas region. Amazight communities, the umbrella term for the indigenous populations of the Magreb region of North Africa, have long been politically and socially marginalised. Their basic needs and infrastructure have been continually neglected and forgotten as the government prioritises urban centres and tourism.
Despite the media narrative of remote villages cut off from all aid, the initial response in the Al Haouz region, in which Amizmiz is located, was relatively fast and effective. On the first day, progress was inhibited by blocked roads; however, by the second day, when my Dad and I arrived, significant relief efforts were underway. Almost all those injured had been brought down from the mountains and were being treated either in a makeshift hospital in Amizmiz or, in more severe cases, in the hospital in Marrakech. Although stretched, the healthcare system was coping. The army were deployed en masse and rapidly cleared the roads, even the remote mountain pistes, driving trucks piled high with necessities as helicopters commuted above. Particularly striking were the ordinary citizens, many of whom had migrated to cities from these villages, coming in droves – a convoy of town cars loaded with care packages lined the roads. As recovery plans develop, the pressing question increases in urgency. What will happen to the Imazighen?
One option under consideration is to relocate remote villages to urban areas, a displacement that would mean scattering communities and leaving behind not only generations of memories, but their very livelihoods. The Ishelhayn are an agricultural people, working hard on terraced fields of cherry, apple, walnut and olive trees and selling their products in weekly markets across the mountains. Adjustment to life in the cities, which are already experiencing the highest rate of unemployment in decades, would place even greater strain on a people who have already suffered so much.
Even if the villages are rebuilt, they will likely be unrecognisable. Although King Mohammed VI’s cabinet pledged to rebuild ‘in harmony with heritage and architectural features’ , the safety of the Ishelhayn must be prioritised. Ironically, efforts to preserve the aesthetic of these villages through legislation mandating construction using traditional methods and materials contributed significantly to the scale of devastation. Houses made of earthen bricks and wood timber, while suited to the climate and able to withstand the harsh weather conditions, crumbled from the force of the earthquake. While many concrete buildings were also partially destroyed, they did not crumble in the same fatal way as traditionally built homes. With the dire need for rapid and affordable reconstruction as well as widespread fear of future earthquakes, there is a pressure from local people to prioritise safety over preservation. This safety would come at a significant cost, however, as tour groups, seeking an ‘authentic Berber experience’ are drawn to the traditional image of mud brick houses. Without these, the adventure travel and hiking industries, which had brought employment to local guides and income to host villages, will suffer.
The marginalisation of Amazight communities is not solely a result of their rural locations, but largely a legacy Morocco’s colonial past. Differentiation between the Moroccan Imazighen and the Arabs is rooted in the Kabyle myth; a colonial trope operationalised by the French in Algeria and then extended into Morocco under the French Protectorate. This ethnographic engineering, seeped in orientalist assumptions, constructed a hierarchical binary between the ‘civilised’ Kabyle peoples and the ‘uncivilised’ Arabs. Propagation of this myth represents the broader colonial strategy, termed by Mahmood Mamdani as ‘define and rule’, in which colonial powers politicised existing ethnic cleavages, emphasising difference and so creating divisions within the colonies. This strategy sought to undermine the potential for unified resistance, creating internal conflict, and so strengthening colonial rule.
As part of the process of decolonisation, post-colonial governments sought to reverse this myth, de-emphasising the distinctiveness of the Amazight people and propagating a process of Arabisation. In a 2007 speech, Qaddafi, the Libyan leader at the time, went so far as to deny the existence of the Amazight people, claiming that they were an invention of colonialism. In Morocco, the kingdom proclaimed its new identity as Arabo-Islamic . According to Belkacem Lounes, secretary-general and former president of the World Amazigh Congress, this strategy sought to “fight diversity in order to achieve the total Arabisation and Islamisation of the population”. Rather than having a unifying effect, the denial of cultural differences has led to the marginalisation of Amazight peoples, justifying the rejection of linguistic and cultural demands and depriving them of representation.
Resistance escalated in 2011, against the backdrop of the Arab Spring. Protest became more frequent and activists from Imider, a mining town in the Atlas Mountains, attracted international attention when they shut down a pipeline diverting water from a reservoir in the High Atlas Mountains to the largest silver mine in Africa. The movement became known as the ‘Amussu xf Ubrid n 96’ (Tachelhayt for ‘Movement on the Road 96’). In the face of rising pressure, and in order to demonstrate a commitment to ensuring a better relationship between the state and the people, King Muhammad VI declared Tamazight a national language alongside Arabic and French. Further progress has been made as last year, the Moroccan government launched live translations of parliament sessions into Tamazight; while at the beginning of this year Morocco’s House of Councillors voted unanimously to include Tamazight as an alternative pre-requisite to Arabic for those wishing to obtain Moroccan citizenship.
While important, linguistic progress and increased recognition and appreciation for Amazight culture remain tokenistic without economic development, representation and protection of rights to substantiate them. Public administration continues to marginalise Tamazight speakers, as services are offered almost exclusively in French and Arabic. Although in 2003 Morocco started rolling out Tamazight language programmes at the primary education level, the effort is severely limited by the lack of teachers qualified to teach Tamazight. Despite many children being ethnically Amazight, in my primary school we were taught in Fus’ha, (Modern Standard Arabic), Derija (the Moroccan dialect) and French – never in Tachelhayt (the regional Tamazight dialect). In the mountains, the teachers hired from Marrakesh could neither speak Tachelhayt, nor did they want to live in the remote villages, so schools were left closed for much of the year. Formal recognition of Tamazight has done little to mediate against the day-to-day realities of ongoing marginalisation of the Amazigh people.
After the earthquake, this marginalised people were catapulted to the centre of international attention. Within 24 hours, the town was teeming with journalists and cameramen, their camp, a city of tents, just outside the town. Despite the initial frenzy, international attention has rapidly receded. Photos of the villages were knocked off the front pages within days, displaced by images of the devastating floods in Libya. While UNESCO world heritage sights and famous tourist destinations will be rebuilt, the communities in the Atlas Mountains lack the representation and leverage to pressure for reconstruction. Despite their resilience and resourcefulness in the face of persistent adversity, the destruction of the villages puts these communities in peril. As the media attention moves on and needs become more acute, these communities must not be forgotten.
The King’s decision to reject most international aid, including from Algeria, Tunisia, Germany, and Italy, as well as Morocco’s former coloniser France, has attracted widespread criticism. Even the office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA), the UN agency which usually manages the international response to major disasters, did not receive a formal request from the government. Only founr countries; the UK, Spain, Qatar and the UAE were allowed to send search and rescue teams and vehicles to the region. The global media narrative that the rejection of aid represented the incompetence of the Moroccan government, which was especially forcefully expressed in French media, propagates Orientalist narratives. Accused of placing pride over the welfare of its people, the Moroccan interior ministry responded by stating that the decision was made ‘based on a precise assessment of needs on the ground’ in order to avoid poorly coordinated aid which ‘would be counterproductive and chaotic.’
Muhammad VI’s decision must, however, be understood with recognition of Morocco’s colonial past. The King’s rejection of aid represents more than simply national pride, but is an assertion of Morocco’s independence and competence. Refusing aid, especially from France, challenges the dependency discourse that has been continually used to justify Western interventionism and undermine the independence of post-colonial states. In this light, French aid is not interpreted as an offer of vitally needed support, but is taken to re-emphasise the paternalistic protectionist narrative which formed the justification for the French Protectorate. Morocco is now one of the strongest economies in North Africa and a regional power in its own right; and since achieving independence in 1956, the country has carefully constructed a national image of autonomy and modernity.
Although the decision to streamline the response seems to have been in the best interests of the people, the toll of the Earthquake on Moroccan infrastructure and economy means that long-term recovery will require international aid. While the initial response from the government was fast and effective, the King’s promised $11.6 billion relief budget has yet to materialise and is impeded by local government’s resistance to projects by external NGOs. The line between supporting and unintentionally disempowering is a fine one, requiring careful consideration of the needs being expressed by the people themselves. When offering aid, Western countries need to be sensitive to the colonial history of Morocco, recognising their historical role in undermining its national dignity and sovereignty. Humanitarian aid is particularly contentious, often associated with neocolonialism and driven by ‘development’ narratives that harken to the ‘civilising missions’ of the late imperial era. It is especially important, therefore, that Western states recognise Morocco’s sovereignty and resist the opportunity to use aid as leverage. The Amazight people are so much more than a pawn in the international game of neo-colonialism. They have suffered enough and should not be caught up in the Liberal democratising mission.
And yet, among the people there remains hope. On my final day in Amizmiz, the headmaster of my primary school stood proudly in front of the recently painted mural commemorating one hundred years since the first school had been established in the town. Around him were piles of colourful rubble, chunks of wall with hand-painted flowers obscuring the chalk-drawn hopscotch. Through an open window in a precariously leaning wall, I saw one of the few remaining classrooms, roof collapsed, and desks scattered. ‘When we rebuild, we will repaint!’, he urged in Tachelhayt. Though progress is slow, Amizmiz is slowly being restored. In the mountains above, however, villages still lie in ruins. The Amazight people are resilient: they have faced hardship and marginalisation for centuries and endured. In the words of the Imam of a remote village, ‘we sometimes feel that we are forgotten by the whole world, and that we are not even part of Morocco’. Now, more than ever before these people need support. As Morocco rebuilds and recovers, the people of the Atlas must not be forgotten.