IMILCHIL

Bride and groom

to

September 2024

Thirty years after a trip to Imilchil in the Middle Atlas, I went back with Ingrid, a photographer friend who was passionate about women in traditional clothing and wanted to make portraits for an ambitious project of women around the world. I told her this:

The feast of the fiancés of Imilchil, nestled in the heart of the mountains, is one of those timeless rituals that fascinates and intrigues, an echo of ancient traditions in a world that escapes. There, far from virtual connections and impersonal encounters, young girls can choose their future husband away from marriages arranged by families.

For three days in September, the inhabitants of the high valleys converge on this space of freedom, where fate is played out at a glance.

The very young girls, bold in their shyness, are the ones who must sketch the first gesture, a smile, a word. It’s like the English quarter of forgotten balls, a moment of grace where everything can be decided.

The brides wait under the caidal tents, imposing shadow of the tribal authority, where one seals the unions with a paraphe and a handshake And then, in a few hours, the newly formed couples disappear into the surrounding valleys.

On the shores of nearby lakes, Isli, the “fiancé”, and Tislit, the “fiancée” are whispering the eternal tragedy of an impossible love in the style of Romeo and Juliet. Their dark waters, encrusted in the rock, are a faithful mirror of hearts that bind or tear under the immense sky. Here, everything is played out in the brightness of a moment, at the crossroads of customs and desires, where mountains jealously guard the secrets of those who love each other.

Geographically, this province is located between Marrakech, Beni-Mellal and Er Rachida, but these names resonate like distant mirages, points on a map.

Here, the cities are fables, rumors carried by the wind of the desert. To reach the high valleys, one must take mule tracks that seem to defy reason, paths drawn by the audacity of men and carved in the rock. The all-terrain is wobbly, taken with vertigo in front of the immensity. These valleys, like solitary rafts on a still sea, seem detached from the rest of the world, surrounded by reefs and impassable cliffs.

The visitor, if he manages to enter this sanctuary, is immediately dominated, engulfed by the grandeur of the place. This feeling of infinity, standing on the edge of a forgotten world, haunts those who venture there. And when he is forced to leave this plateau of lakes, protected by the peaks that stand as silent guardians, he does so reluctantly, with the bitterness of the exiled.

Imilchil, perched at 2,193 meters, is the austere capital of Aït Hadidou. It is a village that seems suspended between heaven and earth, forged by the wind and stone, where life clings to every nook and cranny.

Every year in September, the great fair brings together men, beasts and fates. It is the market of all bargains, goods and oaths, where young girls in colorful scarves slip between the stalls to exchange a look, a promise with the one who could become their husband.

At five-thirty in the morning, the cold still bites. I pulled myself out of the tent, body numb from a cold night spent by the river. The light of dawn hesitates, pale, and the silhouettes begin to move like shadows coming out of the mountain. A farmer, surrounded by his companions, pulls a reluctant calf to the market. He moves slowly, crossing the path between the stone walls that hold so well that the meager pieces of arable land, erected as a derisory defense against the assault of the capricious torrent. Men do not speak. Their footsteps echo on the frozen ground. It is business time, but also meetings and choices. We can feel the tension of these moments when everything can change, when a beast is sold, when a life is decided.

That was in 1995.

Aujourd’hui , depuis Kasba-Tadla, je tente de suivre sur ma carte routière d’époque la piste qui s’est transformée en un ruban d’asphalte impeccable..

Ingrid et Amélie sourient, se moquent gentiment, en suivant la route et les indications de « Waze » sur leurs téléphones. Que va t’il resté de mes souvenirs ?

End of part 1

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Bride and groom

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Imilchil

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