Five Moments the Sahara Left in Me

This wasn’t just another trip. The Sahara went deep inside me through my eyes, my skin, straight into my heart. It gave me immense peace, a feeling of freedom that’s hard to explain. And there, in the middle of silence and vastness, I felt something I’d never felt anywhere else: absolute presence… and a deep sadness that pierced my soul.

This post is not a guide, nor a list of “things to see.” It’s an emotional journey through the moments that marked my time in the Sahara — and in many ways, transformed me. 

1. The Soul and the Shadow of The Sahara
   
   

   The desert is a living presence. It’s not just a landscape — it’s an experience.
   
   
   

   
   
   
   Almost a year later, I can still see myself there: sitting on the sand, barefoot, the wind brushing against my face. In front of me, nothing… and everything. The infinite horizon before my eyes. Dune after dune, the landscape stretched endlessly, as if the world were only made of sand. Time slowed down, softened, became almost irrelevant. And the silence filled everything… and kept me company.
   
   
   In that vastness, I found a peace I’ve rarely felt. My body relaxed, my heart slowed down, my gaze became clearer. The beauty of the Sahara isn’t decorative; it’s deep, magnetic, infinite. At one point, I felt as small as I did feel free, as if the desert embraced me effortlessly and invited me to get lost in it.
   
   
   Sleeping in a haima was another way of returning to the essential. There, surrounded by silence, under a star-filled sky and the moon, I understood that nature doesn’t need us to fill it with words. It just wants us to listen.
   
   
   But sitting there, I also remembered that not everything in the desert is calm. Amid such overwhelming beauty, I felt a deep sadness. Because for many people, the Sahara isn’t a destination — it’s a border. Not a place to admire, but an obstacle they must cross on foot, risking everything for a chance at a better life.
   
   
   As I sat there, breathing deeply, grateful and aware of the privilege of being in that place, I thought of those who leave behind their homes, their families, their languages… not knowing if they will ever make it to the other side. There, in the middle of the sand and the wind, that privilege became clearer than ever: a weight that fell on me and crushed my soul.
   
   
   The Sahara is, at the same time, refuge and threat. Freedom and a barrier. For me, it was a gift. For others, an open wound crossed with fear… and with hope. I thought of those uncertain steps, the difficult days and nights in the desert, full of anguish, loneliness and exhaustion. And I felt that this, too, is part of traveling: to see the invisible, to let yourself be affected, to not look away. And to speak of it with honesty.
   
   
   
2. Being a Child Was Enough
   
   
   I remember the exact moment with pride and deep motherly love: watching my son sit next to another child as we visited a nomadic family. They didn’t say a word. One picked up a coloring book, the other took my bracelet from Côte d’Ivoire… and just like that, they started playing.
   
   
   They didn’t need to speak. Just being there, sharing curiosity, looking at each other with honesty was enough. It was a silent, natural exchange, one that moved me more than any adult conversation could have.
   
   
   During those days, my son wasn’t just a visitor. He was a child among other children. He laughed, played, banged on drums, hugged baby goats, shared bread, got his hands dirty. And in every gesture, he learned something essential: that the world is much bigger, much closer, and much more accessible than we’re led to believe.
   
   
   
   

   

   
   
   I watched him, feeling that he was experiencing something you can’t learn from books or school. Something you only understand through the heart: that our differences are not walls, they are bridges.
   
   
   Skin color, language, religion, customs… We’ve been made to believe these things divide us. But there, in the middle of the desert, my son learned something far greater: that differences don’t push us apart, they bring us closer, they enrich us and they show us other ways of living, feeling, and being in the world.

   And when we take the time to see those differences, we begin to understand each other better. Because in the end, what unites us is stronger: respect, joy and the simple desire to share and connect with each other. And none of that needs translation.
   
   

3. Amazigh Hospitality
   
   

   We visited a nomadic family, and what seemed like a fleeting encounter turned into one of the most genuine moments of the journey. We sat together under the haima, shared freshly baked bread, warm tea, a few words, and many smiles. And time, that is already slow in the desert, seemed to stop even more.
   
   
   In the vastness of the Sahara, they welcomed us as if we were already known to them. There was no rush, only the warmth of a family connected to the land, to the present moment and to their community.
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   That day I understood something simple but powerful: hospitality isn’t measured by what someone has, but by how they give. By how they look at you, by how they make space for you in their life, even if only for a few hours. My son felt at home, too. He played with the children, peeked curiously into the well. He didn’t need guidance to fit in, just an open heart.
   That day I felt that beyond the journey, there is the encounter. Beyond the map, there are people. And in the middle of the desert, among the sandy dust and the silence, we met an Amazigh family who lives with coherence, cares for their roots, preserves their way of life with pride and shares it with open arms.
   
   

4. African Roots in the Heart of the Desert
   
   

   In Khamlia, a small village on the edge of the desert, we weren’t tourists. We were received as guests, as if we belonged.
   
   
   

   

   
   
   That day, there was no loud music or dancing. The community was in mourning. Someone had passed away, and out of respect, the drums remained silent. Still, they offered us a few gentle songs. And that was more than enough.
   
   
   Watching my son sit beside a local musician and play an instrument is a moment I’ll never forget. Not because it was spectacular but because it was intimate.
   
   
   Gnawa music is not just rhythm; it is also memory. It is the echo of those who, torn from their lands as slaves, crossed West Africa and arrived in Morocco. People who, despite the pain and violence of their history, left their soul in every note of the music, every step of the dance, and every word of the stories still told today.

   This small village in the middle of the Sahara is a living reminder of who they were and still are. A vibrant blend of cultures, stories, and deeply African roots. Morocco isn’t just a gateway to Africa. Morocco is Africa. And in that quiet space, I felt it beating.
   
   
   

   
   
   

   Many of us know there’s another reality in North Africa, one that really hurts. A sense of distance from the rest of the continent. A discrimination toward Africans from other regions that excludes and dehumanizes them.

   But in Khamlia, I discovered that the connection is still alive. Here, African roots are not denied. They are honored. Here, being African isn’t questioned, it’s celebrated.

   That’s why this place meant so much to me. Because in the silence of the Sahara, Khamlia reminded me that there are still communities that resist with dignity, that embrace their African heritage with respect and remembrance.
   
   

5. The flavours of the Desert 
   
   

   In the desert, I learned that food is not just nourishment. It’s also an act of care, of belonging, and of memory. Every dish tells a story of the one who prepared it, of the land it comes from. And it’s an opportunity to connect with those who share each bite with you.
   In the Sahara, we were offered handmade bread, baked beneath the sand, and we also got to try the famous Amazigh pizza; so simple, yet so delicious, full of flavor and history. Yes, we were invited to taste it… but more than that, we were invited to sit, to be part of something, to understand.

   There, between laughter, my parents and I remarked on how alike we were. That Amazigh pizza reminded us of a traditional Spanish empanada, and in that moment we realized something beautiful: we are more connected than we think. That probably we share more cultural heritage than we’re even aware of.
   
   
   

   

   Having tea was another lesson in hospitality. The sound of the liquid being poured, the pauses between one glass and the next, the shared silence… Tea isn’t rushed, it’s savored. You taste the flavour, yes, but also the moment, the presence, the company. In that ritual, there is affection, tradition, and living culture.
   
   
   
   Sharing food was sharing life. With its flavours, its textures, its silences. And although we didn’t understand every ingredient, we understood something far more important: the heart with which it was offered. And that, truly, tastes better than any recipe.

I dream of returning to the desert.
To that overwhelming silence. To that star-filled sky. To that way of being that changes everything.

Today, when I close my eyes, I can still see the infinite horizon of the Sahara, feel the wind on my face, hear the crunch of sand beneath my feet. But more than the landscape, what stayed with me were the people and the moments we shared.

This trip wasn’t perfect or spectacular. It was real. And that’s what made it unforgettable. Because I believe that when we travel with an open heart, the world stops feeling distant and it becomes a reflection of who we truly are, and of how much we share with others, even when our lives are different.

The Sahara changed me in subtle ways.
In how I listen.
In how I observe.
In how I value what truly matters.
And most of all, in how I connect with others.

And if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that travel, for me, is not about escaping.
It’s about remembering.
Remembering who I am, where I come from, what I want to honor, and how I want to move through the world.

The Sahara is still with me.
And I know I’ll return.