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Portrait : Mbarka, high-warp weaver of the Berber’s desert.


We always learn about what appears along our path. That day, it was her eyes that found mine.
There was noise around us, but in a moment of fleeting dizziness, we entered into resonance.


In the heights of the Drâa-Tafilalet region of Morocco, the town of Taznakht is a bridge between tradition and craft. Many cooperatives open their doors so that visitors can immerse themselves and absorb the art of weaving. It is the discovery of the story of Berber carpets.

She gazed at me for a subtle moment. Time stops and I collapse. From the mountain’s peak, I was thrown deep inside myself. There is nothing more at all that can matter around us anymore. 
This woman, seated in front of me, is a Berber weaver : a native soul of North Africa. There are no words for us to understand each other. Because even in silence, it is the birth of the language of the world, which flows through us.

Life existed before our names were written on any birth record. And yet, she is timeless. Born before even being named ; she belongs to those who live outside of passing time. She has no age.
She is.

I don’t know her language, so the essentials were translated for me.
She works as much in the fields as in every process of wool production.
Hands of the earth, her quintessence runs through all the high-warp tapestry here.
Each warp and weft thread embodies her independence.

As an elder and a maternal figure, she is a living emblem of knowledge. She is the mother who holds and endures through the generations. 

The stillness of those who breathe so many lives into a single story.

To welcome and receive humanity intimately by touching the essential. I believe that is how we grow.
In the exchange between two gazes : the mirror and its reflection.
In the wisdom between two thoughts : infinite presence.

I learn from this woman, from her silence and her tenderness.
Then comes the time to leave. To feel the painful goodbyes of this sacred quest.
To not look at those hands as they let go. Those cheeks that are touching for the last time.

And finally, these eyes that will no longer see each other.



She writes her name to me and I can read that the woman before me is called Mbarka.
Founded in the absolute, she offered a prayer, wishing me a good life. We never know when we will see someone for the last time.


Homage to Mbarka,
Everything that moves in me, in the encounters and moments of this existence.


To see the world through the eyes of a child.
I weave my memories,
I pray that time won’t erase your face,
And when sleep gently fades you away,
The shadow of your reflection dissolves.




 

Contact :
Iklane Association
High-warp tapestry and Berber rugs
iklan952@gmail.com
+212 662-298958
Talouste, Morocco.