Laazib: How the High Atlas Shepherds Live Among the Slopes
BY RACHID KADDOURI
20 AUGUST 2025
PHOTOS COURTESY OF THE AUTHOR
For years, Laazib was, to me, nothing more than the name of something long gone, a relic of the past. That’s how I understood it then, just a word passed down in Amazigh songs, most notably in the song of El Haj Belaid, in which he sings:
Even if the grass grew to my knees,
And sheep filled the land,
Laazib! I still couldn’t reach you
Songs like these carved a lasting impression into my subconscious, an idea that Laazib was a place not easily reached by ordinary folks. It seemed to belong only to the sons of the slopes and summits, those whose features don’t soften, whose bodies have been toughened by labour, cold and sun.
In the summer of 2024, after joining Global Diversity Foundation, I had the opportunity to visit Laazib for the first time. That visit was anything but ordinary. A flood of questions poured into my head, along with a deep desire to document the place, its customs and daily practices that had endured time and remained alive to this day. It felt like the least I could do to honor this heritage and contribute to its preservation.
Months passed. The idea kept tumbling in my mind, teased my imagination, stirred my visual senses now and then. My colleague Hakima, too, had been thinking about the same thing. As if she was hearing the silent whisper inside me, she suddenly asked, “Would you like to shoot a simple documentary?” It was as if she gave voice to what had long echoed silently within me, an idea I had often dreamt of but never dared to fully grasp.
The idea spilled on paper, one page after another. The first crumpled in my hand, unsatisfying, while the next page’s blankness kept inviting me to try again. Thoughts poured like a flood. Questions multiplied. It became difficult to organize these many ideas and reflections until, one day, I suddenly found myself lacing up my sneakers, ready to make the idea become real.
We arrived in the village of Aghla, where we spent the night before continuing toward Laazib. With me were my colleagues; Faycal, a sound expert I got to know better during our stay, Hakima, and Abderrazak, all worn out by the harsh and narrow road. After delivering us to the village, Abderrezak quickly fell asleep, while the rest of us stayed up late talking with Ismail and his family, who welcomed us with unforgettable warmth, smiles, spontaneous jokes, and clinking tea cups.
We woke after a deep sleep under a ceiling of wood and clay, stirred by the braying of donkeys and the crowing of roosters. People here rise before the sun. Their day begins with lighting the brazier, a daily ritual marking the start of morning. As always, Ismail handed us a bowl of warm water and added, “I hope the night’s cold didn’t bother you,” before disappearing to prepare breakfast.
And so began our journey to Laazib, the seasonal refuge of shepherds. It’s their temporary home when they migrate in search of water and pasture for their flocks. Far from their villages and the warmth of their families, they guide their sheep across the rugged valleys and peaks. Faycal and Hakima spent much of the morning swatting at mosquitoes while laughing and groaning. I told them, while eating breakfast, that the bugs here had gotten used to my blood and no longer found it appealing.
Ismail served us coffee and tea, accompanied by his son Islam, who mirrored his father in every way. Even his body language seemed like an imitation. With innocent shyness, Islam greeted us, smiling, and hiding behind his father whenever we teased him. Ismail spoke proudly of his son, barely thirteen, who managed over 80 sheep, herding and counting them without needing to number them, he knew each one by name. He even led me one day to their barn, but paused at a rock near the house. It was his resting spot during the family’s afternoon naps. Here, Islam mimicked what he saw in Laazib, he made his own tiny flock from peach pits and corn husks, kept inside a circle of rocks. This was how he filled the dullest, most boring hours of the day.
The path to Laazib from Ismail’s home is far from easy, an hour and a half on foot along a narrow mountain trail barely half a meter wide. The villagers had already prepared their donkeys, saddling them and loading them with supplies for the journey. We climbed the mountain with Ismail and his small family. The donkeys’ legs trembled under the weight as the path grew steeper, more like scaling a wall than hiking. We trudged, panting. I lagged behind to film a few shots. Through my camera’s viewfinder, they looked like a caravan wandering through the unknown. Towering, silent mountains made them seem so small by comparison. I was so exhausted it felt like my breath was coming from my ears. Faycal and Hakima took to riding the donkeys to save themselves. We finally reached the mountain pass and caught our first glimpse of Laazib in the distance. I paused there while the others moved on. I took some photos and checked my phone, no signal, no electricity and no screen. Once you realize it, time seems to stretch endlessly. The wind picked up as we got closer. From above, the bleating of goats echoed. It was 10:30 a.m, time for the shepherds to lead their herds into the mountains. From afar, the flocks separated, each following its own path, spilling from the simple stone shelters in an outburst of excitement, their cries echoing like chants marking the start of a daily journey.
We arrived in Laazib and found most shepherds had stayed behind. Here, guests are welcomed warmly and collectively. Their absence from the mountains was not due to laziness but a spirit of solidarity. They had entrusted their flocks to fellow shepherds, as mountain honor demands.
Together, they helped set up the tents that would shelter us through the cold nights. A goat was slaughtered in our honor. Lalla Lkbira, the cheerful kitchen queen, took charge of cooking. The smell of her dishes, rich with wild mountain herbs and goat meat, wafted through the air.
In Laazib, life is not limited to herding alone, but extends to small terraces carved into the mountain’s embrace, where those dwelling there plant clover, barley, and some seasonal vegetables, trying to extract their sustenance from between the rocks and the harsh climate. They toil throughout the seasons to fill their stores with enough to survive the biting cold days. This agriculture, as fragile as a hanging hope, has suffered the same fate as the water. The old stone canals that once irrigated the land and revived the crops have collapsed, cracked, or dried up, draining what once flowed with life. Once the water dries up, the dream withers, and the land becomes a burden with no return, as the farmer now grows only what feeds his animal, a handful of barley, if it grows, spread for his livestock before the sun becomes harsh or winter catches them off guard.
Among them was Mohamed, a 22-year-old man who had retreated to Laazib just as his ancestors had. His eyes held hope, like windows onto a more open world. Despite the place’s hardship, his face glowed with quiet happiness. He told me he had worked in the city for years before returning to his village for good. He got married and now balances his life between Laazib and the village, walking the same difficult road twice a day to spend the night in his home, near his family, never wavering in his resolve.
Mohamed took me to explore Laazib’s spaces. Wearing worn-out shoes and a palm-leaf hat to shield him from the sun, which burned down since early morning until it slowly faded behind the peaks, we met Omar, Ismail’s brother, who herded his flock along with that of Da Lahcen, an elder whose body could no longer keep up. Omar does this for a paltry 5000 dirhams (500 euros) a year.
He starts his day early and fast. Smoke rises from his stone kitchen. He invited me to document his morning routine, beginning with a chase around the barn until he caught his goats and milked them one by one, filling his glass with thick froth. He lit a fire and prepared bread, tea, and a pot of soup. Then he worked on a tagine of carrots, onions, tomatoes, and a handful of spices. I was filming when he said : “Life here is beautiful and tempting, but it’s hard.” He then finished preparing the meal that would fuel him through a long and exhausting day of herding, cleaning the barns, and checking on newborn kids and lambs.
As the sun set without painting the horizon in gold color, the shepherds returned, and the slopes echoed with the sounds of their flocks. Laazib stirred to welcome them. In a moment, everyone moved, rushing to guide the herds into the fenced stone pens. Once darkness fell, they gathered around a small fire or sat near the barns, shoulders touching as if exhaustion had drawn them close. They spoke quietly of the forest, the flock, and the pasture. They advised each other on where to avoid foxes and wolves. Some returned to sleep in the village. Others stayed behind to guard Laazib overnight, sharing the silence, the barking of dogs, and the sounds of the night rising from the depths of the valley. Quietly awaiting the dawn of a new day, holding onto the hope that one day, their burden will ease and the mountain will become a home again, not a hardship.
